The Wild [antikvár]

THE WILD Esther Freud William could hear them in the sudden stillness, the scuffle of the children's feet, their clumsiness as the workshop door swung open and then shut. There was a high chime as a trowel bounced on the path, and the cat flap in the loose panel of the door rattled as it slammed into the wall. 'Daddy!' they called as they streamed through from the lawn. 'William, where are you?' They raced past the chicken shed, and along the moulded track to where the caravan, fresh and brightly painted, was nestled in the gloom. 'William, what is it?' Francine had run out of the kitchen, her hands still wringing from the washing up. 'William . . . what's happening?' Her long skirt skimmed the ground, and the chickens clucked around her in the hope of food. She stood there, unsure, straining past him into the caravan to see, and from where William stood he could feel her body trembling. I