Passing On by Penelope Lively

some kind of trance. He retreated so far into himself, became so withdrawn and unresponsive, that in another age he would probably have been classified as subnormal. As it was, he was simply left alone to operate some private sensual filter system, which admitted air and nourishment but excluded the grinding scatological barbarity of his peers and the ugly monotony of the nine years’ imprisonment to which he was condemned. He must also have admitted instruction, since he passed examinations — though only just. He was no good at games, but survived again by a system of practised self-effacement — dreaming long afternoons away in the long grass of the cricket pitch at deep square leg, trotting helpfully around on the wing at football. From time to time he was bullied, but his anonymity was so expert that after a while even the bullies lost interest. There is no fun in negative response; screams of pain are essential.
    ‘How did he get into the kitchen anyway?’ said Edward. ‘Lawyers don’t go into kitchens. Didn’t you receive him in the sitting room?’
    ‘One thing led to another, somehow.’
    ‘I see.’ He was busy fiddling with the knobs on the television set. It was an ancient model and required much coaxing; Edward’s favourite programme was due in five minutes. ‘Do you think mother did it all on purpose? The Will, and Phil and everything.’
    ‘I suppose so,’ said Helen.
    The television screen shuddered into life and produced a delicate Seurat landscape composed of coloured dots, with just discernible trees and moving figures. ‘Blast!’ said Edward. He hammered the side of the set and the dots turned from green to red. He turned to look at her for a moment: ‘There’s really no point in us getting worked up about it now. About her, I mean.’
    ‘Absolutely none.’
    ‘I suppose she couldn’t bear the thought of not dictating things any more. It’s bad enough for anyone to know they’re going to die eventually but I suppose it’s even worse for people like mother. Like medieval kings. Poor mother. We never realised what she was going through, really.’
    limn. Maybe not.’
    Upstairs, a window slammed. Involuntarily, they both leapt to their feet. And sat down again sheepishly. ‘God!’ said Edward.
    ‘Are we ever going to get used to it?’
    ‘Eventually, I imagine.’
    Edward hit the other side of the television set and a head and shoulders shot into clarity, talking about pesticides. He sighed and slumped into the armchair.
    The programme, that evening, dealt among other things with the Barnacle geese of the Arctic. The Barnacle geese migrate north in the breeding seasons to a wide river valley bordered by low mountains. In order to preserve their young from the marauding foxes of the plain the geese nest two or three hundred feet up a mountain cliff. As soon as the young are fledged it becomes necessary to get them down off these crags to the feeding grounds below. To this end, the parents lead the chirping fluffy bundles across the rocks until they reach the precipitous edge. Then the adult birds, squawking anxiously, launch themselves into the air and circle around, calling the babies.
    The camera dwelt unflinchingly on the ensuing horror as, one by one, the pathetically cheeping goslings hurled themselves over the edge. It lingered on the plunging balls of fluff as, embryonic wings outstretched, small feet flailing, they plunged to the rocks below. There, a fox trotted up and down sniffing. The parents rushed around calling frantically. It came as a surprise to learn that about fifty percent of the chicks survive this charming natural arrangement.
    Edward and Helen watched in appalled silence. The programme ended with some stunning tour de force photography — a blood red Arctic sun hanging low in an orange sky above an exquisite wilderness in which wolves and caribou, foxes and geese were left undisturbed to do what they liked to one another.
    Edward, after that, found it