The Man Under the Table

Tom was forty-five years old.

He lived in a small house on Green Street with his wife Anna, his son Ben, and a big orange cat called Biscuit.

Tom worked at home.

He wrote letters and emails for a small company.

It was not an exciting job, but he liked it.

He liked his quiet house.

He liked his cup of tea at eleven o'clock.

He liked Biscuit sleeping on his desk in the afternoon sun.

On Friday morning, Anna woke up at five o'clock.

She did not go back to sleep.

At six o'clock, she took Tom's arm and shook it.

"Tom," she said.

"Tom, wake up."

Tom opened one eye.

"It is six o'clock."

"I know what time it is," Anna said.

"Tonight is the night."

Tom sat up slowly.

"Tonight is the night," he said.

"Mrs. Grey is coming to our house.

For dinner.

Tonight."

"I know."

"Mrs. Grey is my boss, Tom."

"I know."

"She is the boss of forty people.

And she is coming here.

To this house.

To sit at that table and eat food from our plates."

Anna sat down on the bed.

She put her hands over her face.

Tom put his hand on her back.

"Anna," he said.

"It is only dinner."

Anna looked up at him.

"It is not only dinner," she said.

"There is a new job at the office.

A big job.

More money.

Better hours.

No more Saturdays.

Mrs. Grey chooses the person, and she is choosing this month."

"Ah," Tom said.

"So tonight is not only dinner," Anna said.

"Tonight is everything."

Tom got out of bed.

He stood up tall.

He tried to look like a strong and calm man.

"Anna," he said.

"Look at me."

Anna looked at him.

"Nothing will go wrong tonight," Tom said.

"Nothing.

I promise you."

Anna went downstairs and made a list.

It was a long list.

She wrote it on yellow paper and put it on the kitchen table.

1. Clean the house. All of it.

2. Buy the food.

3. Wash the big table.

4. Put the white cloth on the big table.

5. Put the flowers in the blue glass.

6. Chicken in the oven at five o'clock.

7. Do NOT talk about your old car.

8. Do NOT talk about your foot.

9. Do NOT sing.

"Why can I not sing?" Tom asked.

"Because you sing badly," Anna said.

"And you sing loudly.

And you sing all the time."

"That is true," Tom said.

Ben came into the kitchen.

Ben was sixteen.

He was very tall now, taller than his father, and he was wearing big black headphones.

He was always wearing big black headphones.

"Ben," Anna said.

"Mrs. Grey is coming tonight.

Please be normal."

Ben opened the fridge.

He took out the milk and drank it from the bottle.

"Ben!" Anna said.

Ben did not hear her.

He closed the fridge and walked out of the kitchen.

Anna turned and looked at her husband.

"He will be fine," Tom said.

"He drinks milk from the bottle."

"He will be fine."

At eight o'clock, Anna took her bag and her coat.

"I am going to work," she said.

"I will come home at seven o'clock with Mrs. Grey, in her car.

Seven o'clock, Tom."

"Everything will be ready," Tom said.

"Everything will be perfect," Anna said.

"Everything will be perfect."

Anna kissed him and went out of the door.

Tom picked up the yellow list and smiled.

He had eleven hours.

Eleven hours was a very long time.

He was wrong.

Tom started with the kitchen.

He washed the plates.

He washed the floor.

He cleaned the windows until they were bright.

Biscuit sat on a chair and watched him.

Biscuit did not help.

Then Tom walked to the shop.

He bought a big chicken and potatoes and green beans.

He bought bread and butter and good cheese.

He bought a cake with white cream on the top.

He bought yellow flowers.

He bought two bottles of wine, and they were not the cheap ones.

He carried the bags home.

His arms hurt, but he was happy.

He was singing.

At twelve o'clock, he cleaned the living room.

He found four socks under the sofa and a cup of old tea on the window.

"Good," Tom said.

"Very good.

This is going very well."

At one o'clock, he came to the big table.

The big table stood in the dining room.

It was very old and very, very heavy.

It came from Anna's grandmother.

It was made of dark brown wood and it had four thick legs, and each leg was as thick as Tom's arm.

Four men carried that table into the house eleven years ago, and after that day it never moved again.

Tom washed the table.

Then he washed it a second time.

Then he opened the cupboard and took out the white cloth.

The white cloth was big.

When Tom put it on the table, the sides came down and down and down, and they stopped one centimetre from the floor.

Under the table it was suddenly dark and quiet, like a small brown room.

"Perfect," Tom said.

He put the yellow flowers in the blue glass and put the blue glass in the middle of the table.

He stood back and looked at it.

It was beautiful.

It looked like a table in a photograph.

Tom felt wonderful.

He looked at the clock.

It was half past one.

The chicken was for five o'clock.

He had three and a half hours and nothing to do.

He made a cup of tea.

He sat down at the big table with the yellow list, and he began to draw lines through the jobs.

And then, because he was happy, he began to sing.

He sang loudly.

He sang badly.

Biscuit stood up and walked out of the room.

Tom did not care.

He was singing a song about a boat and the sea and a beautiful girl.

He drew a line through job number one.

He drew a line through job number two.

On the big last word of the song, he lifted his arm high into the air, like a man in a great show.

The pen flew out of his fingers.

It hit the wall.

It hit the floor.

It rolled across the room, under the white cloth, and under the big heavy table.

Tom stopped singing.

"Ah," he said.

He got down on his knees.

He lifted the white cloth and looked into the small brown room under the table.

He could see the pen.

It was in the middle, next to the back leg.

"Come here, pen," Tom said.

He put his arm under the table and reached.

His arm was not long enough.

He put his head and one shoulder under, and reached again.

His fingers touched nothing.

Tom looked at the space under the table.

Then he looked at the pen.

"I can do this," he said.

He got down on his hands and knees, and he went under the table.

Under the table, the world was brown and quiet.

The cloth came down on all four sides.

The light was soft and yellow, and the air smelled of old wood and floor polish.

"This is nice," Tom said.

He was surprised.

He moved forward on his hands and knees.

He reached out.

His fingers touched the pen, but he pushed it by mistake, and the pen rolled away and stopped by the far leg.

"Oh, come on," Tom said.

He moved forward again.

Now he was under the very middle of the table.

He put out his left hand, and he turned his body to the right.

And then it happened.

Something moved in his back.

It was a small thing, low down, on the right side.

It made a sound, and Tom heard the sound inside his own body.

Click.

For one second, nothing happened.

Then the pain came.

It came like a door closing.

It was white and hot and it took all the air out of him.

Tom could not shout.

He could not breathe.

He went down onto his face on the cold floor, and he lay there, and he did not move.

The pain stayed.

It sat in his back like a heavy animal.

After a long time, Tom breathed in.

Then he breathed out.

"Okay," he said quietly.

"Okay.

Okay."

He waited.

He counted to a hundred.

Then he tried to move his right leg.

The pain hit him again and he stopped.

He tried to move his left arm.

That was fine.

He tried to lift his head.

That was fine, too.

He put both hands flat on the floor and pushed.

The pain came so fast and so hard that his eyes went black.

He put his face down on the floor again.

Tom lay still and thought about his situation.

He was forty-five years old.

He was lying on his face on the floor of his dining room, under a very heavy table, inside a small brown tent made of a white cloth, and he could not move.

The pen was near his nose now.

"I hate you," Tom said to the pen.

Somewhere behind him in the house, the clock said two o'clock.

Then Tom thought about his phone.

His phone was on the table.

It was fifty centimetres above his head.

It was closer than the door, closer than the kitchen, closer than anything else in the world — and it was completely impossible.

"Anna," he said.

Then he laughed a small, sad laugh, because Anna was eight kilometres away in an office.

"Help!" he shouted.

His voice sounded strange under the cloth.

It went into the wood and into the walls and stopped there.

"HELP!"

Nobody came.

Of course nobody came.

The house was empty.

Ben was at school until four o'clock.

Mr. Ali next door was probably in his garden with his radio on.

Mr. Ali always had his radio on.

Tom breathed slowly and tried to think like a calm man.

"It is two o'clock," he said to himself.

"Ben comes home at four.

Two hours.

Two hours is nothing.

Men have waited longer than two hours."

He looked at the table leg in front of his face.

It was thick and brown, and there was a small line of old white paint near the bottom of it.

"Hello, paint," Tom said.

"Eleven years in this house and I never saw you."

Then something touched his hair.

Tom shouted.

The white cloth moved, and two green eyes came into the small brown room.

It was Biscuit.

"Biscuit," Tom said.

"Biscuit, listen to me.

This is important."

Biscuit sat down and looked at him.

"Go and get help," Tom said.

Biscuit lay down.

"No," Tom said.

"Not that.

Go.

Get.

Help.

Go to Mr. Ali.

Make a noise.

Do something."

Biscuit rolled onto his side and began to wash his back foot.

"You are the worst cat in England," Tom said.

Biscuit finished his foot.

Then he stood up, walked two steps, and sat down on Tom's back.

The sound that came out of Tom was not a word.

"Off," he said.

"Off.

Get off.

Biscuit!"

Biscuit was very comfortable.

He turned around one time and lay down again.

He was warm and heavy, and he was lying exactly on the bad place.

Tom put his face on the floor.

Water came out of one eye, but he told himself that it was only the dust.

"This is fine," he said.

"Everything is fine.

Everything is going to be perfect."

The clock said half past two.

Time under a table is not the same as other time.

It is slower, and it is longer, and it has nothing in it.

Tom counted the lines in the wood floor.

There were forty-one.

He counted them again and there were thirty-nine.

He counted a third time and got forty-three, so he stopped counting.

He looked at the underside of the table.

There was writing there, cut into the wood with a knife: A.M. 1961.

Anna's grandmother was called Alice Miller.

She was nine years old in 1961.

"You cut your name into your mother's table," Tom said.

"Alice, I like you."

He thought about the chicken.

The chicken was in the fridge.

The chicken needed to go into the oven at five o'clock, and Tom could not stand up.

He thought about Anna's face at seven o'clock.

"No," he said out loud.

"Ben will come.

Ben will come at four, and Ben will help me, and by seven o'clock this will be a funny story."

On his back, Biscuit began to make a soft, happy noise.

At ten past four, the front door opened.

Tom's heart jumped.

"BEN!" he shouted.

"BEN!

I AM HERE!"

The front door closed.

Feet came down the hall.

Then music started — small, thin music, the kind that comes out of the sides of big black headphones.

"BEN!"

The feet walked past the dining room door and went into the kitchen.

The fridge opened.

"BEN!

BENJAMIN!"

The fridge closed.

Something fell over.

The feet went up the stairs.

Tom lay under the table and looked at the old white paint.

"He is wearing the headphones," he said.

"Of course he is wearing the headphones."

For twenty minutes, Tom listened to his son.

Ben walked around above him.

Ben came downstairs.

Ben walked past the dining room door two more times and did not look in.

Tom shouted until his voice was broken.

Nothing happened.

Then Biscuit stood up.

Tom felt the weight leave his back, and he almost cried with happiness.

Biscuit walked out from under the white cloth, into the hall, and began to shout in his loud, terrible cat voice.

He shouted at the kitchen.

He shouted at the stairs.

He was not asking for help; he was asking for food.

But he was shouting, and he was shouting very near Ben.

"Okay, okay," said Ben's voice.

"You are so loud."

Tom heard the headphones come off.

"BEN!" Tom shouted with all the air in his body.

"BEN!

DINING ROOM!

UNDER THE TABLE!"

There was a silence.

"...Dad?"

"UNDER THE TABLE!"

Feet ran.

The white cloth lifted, and a long teenage face came down and looked into the small brown room.

Ben looked at his father.

His father was lying on his face on the floor with dust in his hair, a pen next to his nose, and orange cat hair all over his back.

Ben's face did not move for two seconds.

Then he began to laugh.

"It is not funny," Tom said.

Ben was laughing so much that he had to sit down on the floor.

"Ben."

"Sorry," Ben said.

He was not sorry at all.

"Sorry.

Sorry.

Why are you — how did you —"

"My back," Tom said.

"I cannot move."

"You cannot move?"

"I cannot move."

Ben took out his phone.

"Ben, call your mother."

Ben took a photograph.

"BEN!"

"Sorry!

Sorry." Ben put the phone in his pocket very slowly.

"Okay.

Okay, I will get you out."

"Do not pull me."

"I am going to pull you."

"Do NOT—"

Ben took his father's arms and pulled.

The noise that came out of Tom was very loud and very long.

Biscuit ran out of the room.

In the garden next door, Mr. Ali turned off his radio.

Ben put his father down.

His face was white.

"Okay," he said.

"Not pulling.

We are not pulling."

"We are not pulling," Tom said into the floor.

"Dad.

Dad, are you going to be all right?"

"Call your mother," Tom said.

Ben sat down on the floor beside the table and called his mother.

"Mum?

Yeah.

Yeah, everything is fine. ...

No, everything is really fine. ...

Okay, everything is not completely fine."

Tom could hear Anna's voice coming out of the phone.

He could not hear the words, but he could hear the shape of them, and the shape was not good.

"He is under the table," Ben said.

Anna's voice got louder.

"Under.

The.

Table," Ben said.

"It is his back.

He cannot move. ...

No.

I tried that.

Do not ask about that."

Ben put the phone down near the floor.

"Tom?" said Anna's small phone voice.

"Tom, can you hear me?"

"Hello," Tom said.

"Tom, Mrs. Grey is coming at seven o'clock."

"I know."

"I cannot leave the office.

There is a meeting until half past six.

I am coming home in her car, Tom.

In her car."

"I know."

"What are we going to do?"

Under the table, in the soft yellow dark, Tom closed his eyes.

"Call the doctor," he said.

"Ben, call the doctor."

The doctor could not come, but a nurse talked to them.

Ben held the phone under the cloth.

"Can he feel his feet?" the nurse asked.

"I can feel my feet," Tom said.

"Can he move them a little?"

"A little."

"Then this is a back problem," the nurse said.

"It is very common.

It happens to a lot of people, and it is not dangerous, but it is not comfortable."

"That is true," Tom said.

"Do not pull him.

Do not lift him.

Do not put him in a car.

He must lie flat and stay still and wait."

"For how long?"

"Two hours," the nurse said.

"Or two days.

Everybody is different.

When the muscle is ready, it will let him go."

"There are people coming to dinner at seven o'clock."

"Then he is going to have a very interesting evening," the nurse said.

At half past five, Mr. Ali came to the door.

He had heard the shout through the garden wall.

Mr. Ali was seventy-two years old.

He looked under the table for a long time.

Then he stood up again, very slowly, because his own back was not young.

"Ah," he said.

"Yes.

I know this.

It happened to me in 1998.

I was picking up a small box."

"How long?" Tom said.

"Three days on the floor," Mr. Ali said happily.

"In the hall.

We ate all our dinners in the hall."

"Thank you, Mr. Ali."

Mrs. Ali came ten minutes later.

She looked under the table, said something short in another language, and then went straight into the kitchen and took the chicken out of the fridge.

"Five past six," she said.

"This chicken is late.

Boy!

Potatoes!"

"Me?" Ben said.

"You.

Potatoes."

Ben went into the kitchen.

Under the table, Tom listened to the sounds of his own house.

The oven door.

Water in a pan.

Mr. Ali telling a long story about 1998.

Mrs. Ali telling him to stop talking and to cut the beans.

At twenty past six, Ben came back and lay down on the floor next to the table so that he could see his father.

"Dad," he said.

"We have a problem."

"We have several problems."

"Mum called.

They are leaving the office now.

They will be here at seven."

"Yes."

"So what do we tell Mrs. Grey?"

Nobody said anything for a moment.

Then Mr. Ali said, "The cloth goes to the floor."

Everybody looked at him.

"The cloth goes to the floor," Mr. Ali said again.

"You cannot see under this table.

You cannot see anything at all.

He stays where he is.

He is quiet.

They eat.

They go home.

Nobody knows."

"That is a terrible idea," Ben said.

"It is a wonderful idea," said Mrs. Ali from the kitchen.

"No," Tom said.

"Tom," Mr. Ali said, and he got down on his knees again, slowly, and looked under the cloth.

"Listen to me.

Your wife wants this job.

If she comes home now and finds her husband on the floor and four people shouting and no dinner, does she get the job?"

Tom looked at the old white paint on the table leg.

"No," he said.

"So you are not here," Mr. Ali said.

"Where am I?"

"Scotland," said Ben.

Everybody turned and looked at him.

"Scotland?" Tom said.

"Your brother is ill," Ben said.

"You went to Scotland this afternoon on the train."

"I do not have a brother."

"Tonight you have a brother," Ben said.

Tom lay on the floor and thought about this for ten seconds.

"His name is David," he said.

They worked fast.

Ben brought a pillow and put it carefully under his father's head.

Mrs. Ali brought a small blanket.

Mr. Ali brought a bottle of water and put a straw in it, and put it near Tom's hand.

"Rules," Mr. Ali said.

"No talking.

No coughing.

No moving."

"And no singing," Ben said.

"I am lying on the floor with a broken back," Tom said, "and my family is still telling me not to sing."

At two minutes to seven, they turned off the light in the hall, put the last plate on the table, and stood in a line like soldiers.

At seven o'clock, a car stopped outside the house.

Tom heard the front door open.

He heard his wife's voice, high and bright and not like her real voice at all.

"Please come in, Mrs. Grey.

Oh, thank you.

Yes, we love this street."

"Please call me Ruth," said another voice.

Mrs. Grey had a low, slow voice.

It was not a hard voice.

Tom had imagined a hard voice.

The feet came into the dining room.

Tom watched them arrive under the white cloth, one pair after another, like guests at a very small party.

Anna's black shoes.

Ben's enormous white trainers.

Mr. Ali's brown slippers.

Mrs. Ali's red shoes.

And then a pair of dark blue shoes with a low heel, standing quietly at the end of the table.

"What a beautiful table," said Mrs. Grey.

"It was my grandmother's," Anna said.

"And where is your husband?

Tom, is it?"

There was a small silence above Tom's head.

He held his breath.

"Scotland," Anna said.

"Scotland!"

"His brother is ill," Anna said.

"David.

He went this afternoon.

He was very sad to miss tonight."

"Oh, I am sorry," Mrs. Grey said.

"I hope David gets better soon."

Under the table, Tom put his face into the pillow.

The dinner began.

It was, from below, a strange and wonderful thing.

Tom could not see faces, but he could hear everything, and he could see twelve shoes.

He learned many things that evening.

He learned that his son could talk to adults.

Ben talked about school and about a computer game, and Mrs. Grey asked questions, and Ben answered them, and once he made everybody laugh.

Tom lay on the floor with dust in his hair and felt very proud.

He learned that Mr. Ali had once worked on ships.

Eleven years next door, and Tom had never known.

He learned that his wife, when she was nervous, moved her left foot up and down, up and down, all the time.

And he learned that his chicken, cooked by Mrs. Ali, was the best chicken that anybody at that table had ever eaten.

He knew this because Mrs. Grey said it three times.

"You must give me the recipe," Mrs. Grey said.

"It is not a recipe," said Mrs. Ali.

"It is butter."

Then two difficult things happened.

The first was the cat.

Biscuit came under the table at half past seven.

He walked past twelve shoes without looking at any of them, came to Tom, stood on his back, turned around one time, and lay down.

Tom made no sound.

He was very proud of that later.

"Oh, you have a cat," said Mrs. Grey.

"I saw an orange tail."

"Biscuit," Anna said.

"He is old and lazy and he does nothing."

"He does nothing," Tom said silently into the pillow.

The second difficult thing was the nose.

At a quarter to eight, Tom's nose began to itch.

It was the dust.

There was eleven years of dust under that table, and it was all in his nose now, and he could not lift a hand to touch it because his right arm was under his body and his left arm was holding the water bottle.

He wanted to sneeze.

He wanted to sneeze more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

Above him, Mrs. Grey was saying something serious and quiet about Anna and the new job.

Tom pressed his face into the pillow and did not sneeze.

He thought about the sea.

He thought about snow.

He thought about cold grey stones.

The feeling went away.

"That," Tom thought, "was the bravest thing I have ever done."

At eight o'clock, the dark blue shoes moved.

They moved a little to the left.

Then they moved a little to the right.

Then, very quietly, one foot pushed the back of the other shoe, and the shoe came off.

The second shoe came off too.

Mrs. Grey, the boss of forty people, was sitting at the table in her socks.

"These shoes," she said above him, "are beautiful, and I hate them."

Everybody laughed.

Tom looked at the two blue shoes.

They were lying on their sides about thirty centimetres from his face.

He looked at Mrs. Grey's feet in their dark socks, and her feet looked tired, and suddenly Tom liked her very much.

Then Biscuit got up.

Tom felt the weight leave his back.

He heard the cat walk away.

He heard a small noise, a soft dragging noise on the wood.

Tom opened his eyes.

Biscuit had one of the blue shoes in his mouth.

"No," Tom said.

He said it with no voice at all, only with his lips.

"No.

Biscuit.

No."

Biscuit looked at him.

Then he walked out from under the white cloth with the shoe, into the hall, and he was gone.

Above the table, people were talking about holidays.

Tom lay on the floor for the next thirty minutes and thought about that shoe.

He thought about it while they ate the cheese, and while Ben brought in the cake with the white cream.

Then, at twenty to nine, Mrs. Grey said the words that Tom was waiting for.

"Well," she said.

"I should go home.

Where are my shoes?"

There was a small movement above him.

A foot went out and searched the floor.

It found one shoe.

It searched again.

"That is strange," said Mrs. Grey.

"Is something wrong?" Anna asked.

"I only have one shoe."

"You only have one shoe?"

"I took them off," Mrs. Grey said.

"I am very sorry.

And now there is one."

"The cat," said Ben, in a voice that was too fast and too loud.

"It was probably the cat.

I will look in the hall.

I will look right now, in the hall, far away from here."

"Oh, it is under the table, I am sure," said Mrs. Grey.

And she pushed back her chair and bent down and lifted the white cloth.

There are moments in life that are very short and very long at the same time.

Mrs. Grey looked into the small brown room under the table.

In the small brown room, on the floor, there was a man.

He was lying on his front on a blue pillow with a small blanket over his legs.

There was dust in his hair.

There was orange cat hair all over his back.

There was a water bottle with a straw near his left hand, and a pen near his nose.

The man looked up at her.

"Good evening," Tom said.

Mrs. Grey made a sound.

It was not a big scream.

It was a short, high sound, and she sat back very fast and hit her head on the table, and the blue glass fell over and the yellow flowers went into the cheese.

Everybody stood up.

Everybody spoke at the same time.

"Ruth, I am so sorry—"

"Mum, I can explain—"

"In 1998 the same thing happened to me—"

"Sit down, all of you," said Mrs. Ali.

And Anna, standing at the end of her grandmother's table with her hands over her mouth, said in a very small voice:

"Tom is not in Scotland."

For three seconds, nobody moved.

Then Mrs. Grey began to laugh.

She laughed and she could not stop.

She held the table with one hand.

She put her other hand on Anna's arm, and she tried to speak, and she could not, and she laughed again.

"I am so sorry," Anna said.

"I am so, so sorry."

"Do not," said Mrs. Grey.

"Do not be sorry.

Wait.

Wait."

She breathed.

She wiped her eyes.

"Four years ago," she said, "I was at the airport in Rome.

I bent down to pick up my bag, and my back did exactly this.

Exactly this.

I lay on the floor of that airport for two hours and forty minutes, next to a shop that sold sunglasses, and eleven hundred people walked past me and looked at me."

"Oh," said Anna.

"So please," said Mrs. Grey, "do not tell me you are sorry."

And then Ruth Grey, the boss of forty people, got down on the floor, put her head under the white cloth, and said:

"Hello, Tom."

"Hello," Tom said.

"How long?"

"Since two o'clock."

"Two o'clock!"

"There was a pen," Tom said.

"There is always a pen," said Mrs. Grey.

She stayed there for a moment.

Then she came out, and she looked at the table, and she looked at the floor.

And she picked up her plate and her glass and the last piece of cake, and she sat down on the wood floor with her back against the wall, in her socks.

"Well," she said.

"Come on, then."

They all came down.

Anna sat on the floor with her legs under her, next to her husband's head.

Ben lay on his front with his chin in his hands.

Mr. Ali sat on a low box because he could not get down that far.

Mrs. Ali brought the cake and the plates and the teapot, and she put them all on the floor in the middle, and she sat down too.

Biscuit came back with no shoe and lay in the middle of everything.

They ate the cake on the floor of the dining room.

Under the table, on the pillow, Tom ate his with a small spoon, very slowly, with his face turned to the side.

It was the best cake he had ever eaten.

They talked until midnight.

Tom told the story about his old car, which was on the list of things he was not allowed to talk about, and Mrs. Grey laughed so much that Anna had to stop looking at her.

Mr. Ali told them about the ships.

Mrs. Ali told them what butter can do.

Ben showed everybody the photograph on his phone, and Tom could not stop him, because he could not move.

At half past twelve, Mrs. Grey found her other shoe behind the cupboard in the hall.

It had cat hair on it.

She put it on, and at the door she stopped and looked back at the dining room.

"Anna," she said.

"Come and see me on Monday morning."

Then she went out to her car.

Tom slept on the dining room floor that night, and Anna slept next to him on cushions, and Biscuit slept on Tom's back, which nobody stopped, because it was warm and because the fight was over.

In the morning, the heavy animal had gone out of his back.

Tom moved his right leg, and it hurt, but it was a small, ordinary hurt.

At nine o'clock, with Ben on one side and Anna on the other, he came out from under the table on his hands and knees, and he stood up, and he was one hundred and eighty centimetres tall, and the ceiling was a long way away, and it was wonderful.

On Monday, Anna got the job.

Every year after that, on the same Friday in October, the same people came to the same house.

Mrs. Ali cooked the chicken.

Mr. Ali told the story about 1998.

Ben showed the photograph.

And they never ate at the big table.

They put the cloth on the floor and they sat around it, all of them, and Ruth Grey always took her shoes off first.

Tom kept the pen.

It is on his desk now, in a small glass, and he does not write with it.

Sometimes, in the afternoon, when the house is quiet and Biscuit is asleep in the sun, Tom looks at that pen and he thinks about the small brown room under his grandmother-in-law's table, and about the writing cut into the wood there with a knife, and he smiles.