lightning, and the smile of a shy person. Think of night-time with a speaking voice. Or think how moonlight might talk, or think of ink, if ink had vocal chords. Give those things a narrow aristocratic face with hooked eyebrows, and long arms and legs, and that is what the baby saw as she was lifted out of her cello case and up into safety. His name was Charles Maxim, and he determined, as he held her in his large hands at arm’s length, as he – would a leaky flowerpot that he would keep her. – The baby was almost certainly one year old. They knew this because of the red rosette pinned to her which read, ‘1!’ rather,’ said Charles Maxim, child is either one year old, or ‘Or ‘the she has come first in a competition. I believe babies are rarely keen participants in competitive sport. Shall we therefore assume it is the former?’ The girl held on to his earlobe with a grubby finger and thumb. birthday, my child,’ he said. ‘Happy Charles did not only give the baby a birthday. He also gave her a name. He chose Sophie, on that first day, on the grounds that nobody could possibly object to it. day has been dramatic and ‘Your extraordinary enough, child,’ he said. might be best to have the ‘It most ordinary name available. You can be Mary, or Betty, or Sophie. Or, at a stretch, Mildred. Your choice.’ Sophie had smiled when he said so Sophie it was. Then he fetched his coat, ‘Sophie’, and folded her up in it, and took her home in a carriage. It rained a little, but it did not worry either of them. Charles did not generally notice the weather, and Sophie had already survived a lot of water that day. Charles had never really known a child before. He told Sophie as much on the way home: do, I’m afraid, understand books far more ‘I readily than I understand people. Books are so easy to get along
lightning, and the smile of a shy person. Think of night-time with a speaking voice. Or think how moonlight might talk, or think of ink, if ink had vocal chords. Give those things a narrow aristocratic face with hooked eyebrows, and long arms and legs, and that is what the baby saw as she was lifted out of her cello case and up into safety. His name was Charles Maxim, and he determined, as he held her in his large hands – at arm’s length, as he would a leaky flowerpot – that he would keep her. The baby was almost certainly one year old. They knew this because of the red rosette pinned to her which read, ‘1!’ ‘Or rather,’ said Charles Maxim, ‘the child is either one year old, or she has come first in a competition. I believe babies are rarely keen participants in competitive sport. Shall we therefore assume it is the former?’ The girl held on to his earlobe with a grubby finger and thumb. ‘Happy birthday, my child,’ he said. Charles did not only give the baby a birthday. He also gave her a name. He chose Sophie, on that first day, on the grounds that nobody could possibly object to it. ‘Your day has been dramatic and extraordinary enough, child,’ he said. ‘It might be best to have the most ordinary name available. You can be Mary, or Betty, or Sophie. Or, at a stretch, Mildred. Your choice.’ Sophie had smiled when he said ‘Sophie’, so Sophie it was. Then he fetched his coat, and folded her up in it, and took her home in a carriage. It rained a little, but it did not worry either of them. Charles did not generally notice the weather, and Sophie had already survived a lot of water that day. Charles had never really known a child before. He told Sophie as much on the way home: ‘I do, I’m afraid, understand books far more readily than I understand people. Books are so easy to get along