Alfred, excited by the prospect of kissing his mother good-night - for he's proud of the responsibility placed on him when father is away, isn't it true? - urges his legs on faster to speed him away from the last game in the park and straight to his mother's cheek; scarcely pausing for breath he runs into the light of the room.
Looking back, what struck him the most was the way his mother rose unhurriedly to shield the man from him, and told him with her eyes to leave her. The stranger, barely alive, had borne down upon her for the final time as Alfred walked through the door. Then rising up to a sitting position, Alfred's mother had taken the man round the chest with one arm, and pushed his torso behind her back to save - whose? - feelings.
How wet and messy the man was, like a baby just born; while his mother was perfectly dry, Alfred realized.
At the table Alfred sat screaming with the knowledge his father should perhaps have, all the while pulling out his red hair in tufts which began to gather on the table around his bent head.
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