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went along. After his father died, there was a change. Things no longer had the right shapes. They took on a disconcerting unpredictability.
    George grew up in a smallish life in the smallish town of Salcombe. His family had a house above the town, with what he later realized are the most stirring views in the south of England. To the south the estuary opens exuberantly out to sea between great coastal cliffs — Gara Rock and Bolt Head. On many days a line of breakers across the estuary shows where the bar is, dangerous, exciting. To the east, the sands of East Portlemouth, where the little ferry goes. To the north, the land becomes flatter and the river widens and spreads up towards Kingsbridge. Every day difference, in the clouds, the waves, the boats. To George as a schoolboy they seemed unremarkable. He grumbled to himself as he climbed steep pavements on the way home from school.
    It was the first mild day of spring when his father disappeared, a Sunday. His mother made a picnic, and after church, off they went: George, his mother and father, and his sister Gwen, two years younger than George, in their Austin Seven, to South Sands. Although the day was warm, the wind was surprisingly blustery.
    George’s father said, “Let’s walk to Bolt Head.”
    At the age of thirteen, George didn’t like walking, but he said he would go. His mother and sister thought they would stay on the beach, sheltered from the wind. The path is gentle at first, through sturdy trees, but then steep, exposed, with a jagged drop to the left. A sudden gust, far too strong for a mere wind, frightened George, made him think he would be blown from the cliff.
    He said, “Can we go back?”
    â€œYou go back,” his father said. “I’m going on, up to Bolt Head.”
    â€œIs it all right if I don’t come?”
    â€œLook after your mother and sister,” he said.
    By the time they knew something was wrong, it was dark. Mr. Smith’s body was found the next day.
    George’s mother gathered her two children to her.
    â€œJust the three of us now,” she said.
    The only time George saw her cry was at the funeral. George did not cry.
    The house, the shop, the car were sold. They moved to Peckham, in South London, where George’s mother’s sister lived. Mrs. Smith got a job as assistant headmistress.
    George got a scholarship to Alleyn’s School. “Without that we couldn’t afford it,” George’s mother said. “We don’t have much money. Your father’s investments did not do well. We’ve enough to get by, but not much over.”
    George felt guilty that he only half loved his father. The part he loved was when he would take George sailing in the boat he owned, a Salcombe Yawl. There were a few of them. The owners all knew each other, and there would be races, in which Mr. Smith and his son once did as well as third place. What George liked best was when his father would just take him off, to a destination prompted by wind and tide, and he would let George steer without directions to do this or that. They would share the sandwiches.
    The part George could not love was his father’s churchgoing talk about how everyone was sinful. He never talked like that on the boat. A year before his death, as if to prove him right, George stole a shilling from the till in the shop. The cane was brought out, a piece of family equipment. George leaned over the arm of a sofa and was thrashed.
    â€œThat’s six,” said his father. “How many do you deserve?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    The pain was bad.
    â€œHow many?” He was in a rage, out of breath, his voice raw.
    George’s mother came to intervene.
    â€œAlfred, no. That’s enough. You’ll hurt him.”
    â€œWhat he deserves … for his own good.”
    Six more.
    His mother stood aside. There was blood from the welts. For a week he could not sit. In school and at