A Woolly Mercy

‘Go on – show them the picture you did,’ she says encouragingly, during coffee and cake.

‘Which picture?’ I ask.

‘The one of the sheep.’

I hand over my silvery sketchbook. ‘I mean, it’s still really in the design stage…’

But the book is already passing left to right through the generations: grandmother, uncles, cousins, fathers – each looks, then recoils slightly in confusion.

Despite their politeness, it’s clear they expected much more from the gringo; that, if there was some hidden talent worth flying me all this way for, it certainly wasn’t drawing sheep.

They are unaccustomed to pretence, and now they have to pretend that this thing is somehow worth looking at… and they don’t like it.

The silence screams as it’s beheaded by the grandfather clock.

My life. The sheep. The chocolate stain on my trousers. These scribbles do nothing to make it right. Nada.

Senhor José is last in line to behold the horror.

But instead, he places it back down on the table. His eyes are full of goodness as warm light spills from his mouth.

‘And he’s a good swimmer too!’ he announces.