It is December 22nd, a foot of snow has fallen, and Paul is heading out for a small coastal resort on his son Euan's sixth birthday. "Shall I tell you a story?" he says, and recalls the boy's birth, his first words and first steps, all the stuff of forgetting, of any boy's life . . .
But nothing, Paul has decided, should ever be lost or discarded or buried, as it was in his own childhood. And so he confides the history of his relationship with Ruth - Euan's mother, his wife. He remembers the beds and bedsits they shared, the home they found in each other, and the homes they had fled from. There's the death of his own mother when he himself was a boy, and his father's refusal ever to explain what had occurred. There's his father's vigour and drinking, his sculptures and girlfriends, and his eventual decline.
It soon becomes evident however that Euan is not in the car. Evident, too, that Paul is living alone, and that in the cliffs and dunes of the seaside resort lies the key to his story's conclusion.
