the doughnuts with jam from the canvas bag, setting themout on their paper-covered trays. At eleven, when the sun arrives at the windowsill and lights up the cool, whitewashed walls in the bakery, the geraniums glowing in the window box, she knows that Mrs. Blatchford will come and fetch Manford for tea and a bite to eat. Mrs. Blatchford tells her that he holds her hand when she comes to lead him to the table, but only for a moment. He seems a little wary still, she says. He puts his hands over his face when she speaks to him if heâs feeling too shy for conversation.
I N THE EVENINGS, during their supper, Vida has been working on his manners. Sheâs ashamed that she hasnât spent more time on thisâshe believes that it pains him to be so awkward. But it isnât easy, and sometimes she thinks itâs better just to let him eat in peace, without always nudging him about where his elbow is or leaning over to wipe his chin for him.
During their practice sessions, which she has begun since he started at Nivenâsâas he takes both lunch and his tea there nowâshe holds the cup to his lips, touches his mouth with her finger, speaks softly to him. His eyes watch her face. He tries.
âGently, Manford,â she says. âAs though kissing a flower.â
She spills a bit of tea into the saucer and he practices holding it, watching the tea lap the edge.
âLittle bites,â she says, passing him a triangle of toast spread with jam. He tries.
âYour napkin goes here,â she says, spreading it on his lap where he pats it. She doesnât like it tied around his neck anymore. Makes him look the baby.
A T N IVENâS THEY have elevenses and lunch and tea, and after each meal Manford goes back to the dairy to work. Now they have him icing the cakes as well. This he does surprisinglywell, Mr. Niven says to Vida, the tiny garlands and miniature roses each set in their place, sometimes a fantastically shaped leaf or cluster of petals that the others come gradually to recognize as a likenessâa good likeness, in factâof some native plant, nettle or cowslip.
Mr. Niven, who isnât usually one to appear surprised by much of anything, likes to stop his work and look over Manfordâs efforts from time to time. âItâs quite remarkable,â he tells Vida. âItâs as if heâsâmemorized things. The way they look.â
âHe does have a talent for it, doesnât he?â Mrs. Blatchford agrees. She cocks her head and looks over a tray of cakes. âThough theyâre not what you would call traditional looking, are they?â
Mr. Niven frowns at a particular cake, iced with a tapestry of rampant, though lovely, green weeds. âShall we have trouble selling it, do you think?â
âWell, we mustnât discourage him,â Mrs. Blatchford says with conviction. âNo one wants it, weâll just give it to the vicarage. They slice all their cakes aforehand.â
T HE IDEA OF the job at Nivenâs came to Vida so suddenly one day that she couldnât quite believe it hadnât ever occurred to her before. It wasnât that she hadnât wanted to see him feeling useful. One time, in fact, sheâd explored the possibility of the Spastic Societyâs workshop, where people like Manford could have a job. She and Manford had gone on the bus one day into Winchester, and theyâd had a look at the place.
The workshop was in an old garage, converted into a hall so brightly lit that Vida found herself squinting as she introduced herself to the woman who bustled over to greet them and introduced herself as
Matron,
of all things! As if Dickens or Trollope or someone might have invented her, Vida thought.
The employeesâthe clients, as Matron referred to themâsome of them tied up in wheelchairs with twisted sheets so they wouldnât slump over, sat at long tables, nodding off over their work. As far as