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of his, or thingsabout him, in the house. Some wives in unhappy marriages have a spring clean of everything that reminds them of their dead husband. Did you ever get the impression that your father was hated?”
    â€œNo, certainly not. But then, I never got any impression of him at all.”
    â€œShe could just have put any things of his away somewhere—the attic, a high cupboard—that sort of thing. Worth trying.”
    â€œYes. I’ve thought of doing that.”
    â€œDon’t you even know what he did for a living?” There was an edge of exasperation in his voice. Exasperation was his substitute for blame. He thought her lack of curiosity was blameworthy.
    â€œOh yes, I know that. He was a cartoonist.”
    There was a moment’s silence.
    â€œWell, that’s more interesting than a train driver or a bank clerk, isn’t it? Who did he cartoon for?”
    â€œOh, I think it was The Scotsman . Or maybe the Glasgow Herald or Tribune or something.”
    â€œRight. Were these daily political cartoons?”
    Eve really had to think.
    â€œNo, I think they were human interest cartoons. Gentle.” Her voice brightened. “That’s right. Mother said they were gentle and she went on: ‘He was a gentle man.’ I remember now. There was a central family in the cartoons, and it was the funny things they did or said, and their comic dog and cat—that kind of thing. Sort of like the Gambols in the Express .”
    â€œOh,” said Grant, who was a taste snob: anything that had gone out of fashion was deplorable in his eyes. “Well,let’s hope that he was funnier. Do you realize you’ve just endowed your father with his first characteristic, his first human trait?”
    â€œYes, I suppose I have.”
    â€œIf these two determined women ganged up on him, he probably didn’t stand a chance.”
    Eve smiled to herself.
    â€œI suspect you have just tried very hard to avoid using the word ‘dykes,’ and not to suggest they must have been sergeant-major types in drag.” Grant laughed. He was usually honest about his prejudices with Eve. “Anyway, you’re ignoring one thing.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œThe fact that, as far as we know, my father won and the lesbian experiment failed. Does ‘Jean’ sound like someone who enjoyed a great triumph all those years ago?”
    â€œNo,” admitted Grant. “She sounds like someone who suffered defeat, and has never been able to put it behind her.”
    â€œAgreed. So granted I’m going to do something, what do I do?”
    Grant pondered.
    â€œNo address on the letter. Presumably she didn’t put an address on the envelope, as the Americans do?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat about the postmark?”
    â€œTerribly smudged, as they usually are these days. I think the post office doesn’t want us to know when things were posted.”
    â€œYou could consult a philatelist. Postmarks are probably important to them. He might be able to give you anidea of the length of the town name it was posted from, maybe even the initial letter.”
    â€œMaybe. That doesn’t get us awfully far though, does it?”
    â€œNo. But you’ve got a two-pronged approach now. Your mother’s possible lesbian affair, and the ‘business with John’ that Jean talks about. Plenty on your plate for a start. Do you know, for example, when your mother took the school job in Crossley?”
    â€œOh—when I was very young. No—before I was born, because I was born here. I never remember living anywhere else until I was grown up.”
    â€œPin it down. And where did she come from?”
    â€œMelrose, in the Border country. She always said she took care to minimize her Scottish accent and vocabulary when first she came here. She thought the first priority was to be understood by the children.”
    â€œUnfashionable but