"Mimi's house! Mimi's house!" The child marched resolutely around and around the bed where Julia lay, trying against all hope to catch a "spot of kip." It was a fuzzy, lazy afternoon, ideal for doing nothing.

Why must he go on so? Julia yawned and tried to shut him out. She pulled the pillow over her head in an attempt to block out the never-ending noise.

"Mimi's house! Mimi's house!" He put his hands on the bed and rocked it forcefully as he yelled. His wide, brown eyes were determined and intent. His chant was absolutely relentless.

"Not now, John. Later." Julia rolled over, her back to him. She closed her eyes.

He scampered across to her side, standing with his elbows on the bed, staring directly into her face. She opened one eye and looked at him groggily.

"Mimi's house," he repeated again. His lips pursed in unwavering decision. Julia closed her lids and sighed a long, surrendering sigh. Then she sat up on the bedspread, knees up, arms looped over her knees. She looked at her son with frustrated fatigue.

"Mimi's house, Mimi's house," she mocked him, turning her lips down at the corners and making an ugly face. "I'm right weary of that, John Winston. What's wrong with here? What's wrong with Mummy's house? Why can't you just run along and find something pleasant to do and let me rest a bit, y'know? I was out half the night...my head's a bell tower at midday, and I don't feel a bit like gettin' up and goin' over to the much-demanded Mimi's house, y'know. I'm not in the mood for her, John... all those damn puritanical lectures of hers! I just don't want to hear it today, that's all. I'm simply not up for it."

She spoke sharply and watched him closely. Did any portion of it sink in?

"I want Mimi's house," he stated simply.

Mimi's house! Julia wanted to scream. What on God's green earth does he find so infernally fascinating at my sister's? There're no toys over there, no teeter-totters, no games or swings... and other than a currant scone or two, Mimi never gives him anything tempting. What on earth makes Mim 's "Mendips" so compelling?

Julia swung her shapely legs down from the bed and planted them firmly in worn, terrycloth slippers. She paused for a moment, studying her reflection in the bureau mirror, pulling her face tighter beside her ears, massaging the puffiness underneath her eyes.

"Mimi's?" John hounded her, standing sentinel on her actions.

"We're going," Julia repeated sluggishly. "We're going to Mimi's." But she didn't move.

Julia flashed a smile at the mirror, turning her head slowly from side to side, looking for wrinkles. She was only thirty, and her appearance was paramount to her. With Freddie still away and largely estranged these days, Julia hadn't a husband at home, and she depended heavily upon being attractive. Her wide mouth and brilliant teeth had to beckon flawlessly. Her crescent-shaped eyes had to dance. Her rich "chocolate 'n cherry" hair had to shine. She couldn't afford to look the way she felt today. She had to sparkle.

"Ready," John pronounced, as if he'd made some grand preparations for the journey. Actually, he had been ready for quite some time. He hadn't budged from the spot or changed a thing. He simply wanted to bring his mother back to the moment.

She got up and rearranged her shirt and skirt, smoothing out the rumples, twisting this way and that. Her toes wriggled into her shoes, and she took a brush vigorously to the long, auburn hair. John watched, fascinated.

"You just want to go visit your Uncle Ge 'rge!" Julia begrudgingly smiled at the stubborn interrupter of her stolen afternoon. "I'll wager you think he's got a sweet treat for you..or perhaps another chapter of that naughty book you've been reading.."

"Just William!" John smiled enthusiastically. "Just William stories!" He rocked up on his tiptoes at the thought of the mischievous tales George had been reading him about the rebellious little boy whose adventurous nature constantly led him astray.

Julia shook her head but smiled at his animation. She had to agree with John. George Smith was a treat for everyone. In fact, she'd never known a sweeter, gentler man.

"We read news, too!" the boy bragged, gathering up his mother's old blue umbrella, just in case. He was ever cautious. "I know sounds now..th, sh, ch, tr, bl, br, thr, dr.. Ge'rge says I'm fast."

"Ah, the oft-quoted gospel according to Ge'rge," Julia said, taking her son's hand and half-heartedly moving towards the door. John looked at her and frowned with puzzled eyes. He understood very little of what Mum said, but she smelled lovely, and she was beautiful when she smiled. She was funny, too, even when he wasn't sure what the joke meant or why they were laughing. And now they were off on an outing to Mimi's, just the two of them, alone ­ no strange men, no chatty friends, no naps to while the afternoon away, just Mum and him, off on an adventure. John smiled and pulled her along.

George was still at the dairy when they arrived, but Mimi ushered them in, clucking her tongue at Julia.

"Aren't looking at all brilliant today, are we, Judy?" Mimi honed in on the dark circles under Julia's eyes. "Late night again?"

"John Dykins," Julia offered a smug smile, "Dinner, dancing, wine and flowers! Quite the dandy, that one."

"And our John?" Her sister interrogated, "What of him, then?"

"Oh, he stayed with friends. No problem, really. They were glad to have him. Isn't that so, John?"

Caught in the act of pulling off his Sunday shoes and knee socks, John compliantly nodded. Though he had spent last evening completely alone in front of the radio, he didn't dream of turning his mother in. She had prompted him on the bus on the way over; he knew just what to say.

Mimi, however, was skeptical. She realized the boy adored ­ no, worshipped his mother. He would say anything, and like as not, Judy had left the child alone again. Something simply had to be done.

"Where's Ge'rge?" John changed the subject.

"You know good and well where he is." Mimi never answered foolish questions, even for the sake of pleasant conversation. "So why don't you put those socks and shoes right back on and run out in the fresh air until he gets home? You can watch for him and meet him at the walkway."

John did just that. He liked Menlove Avenue ­ so much to see on the busy dual carriageway and even more to get into. On recent visits, he'd even discovered several local boys about his age who were allowed to come over and play with him. They were just his type ­ pliable souls whose easy-going nature bent under his firm direction.

That afternoon, the script was the same.

"All right," John instructed them, hands on his hips, "I'm the Indian. You're cowboys."

"But I want to be an Indian, too," one brave boy with a jagged Prince Albert managed to stammer.

"Shut up. You're not." John was firm. "I'm the Indian. You're a cowboy. Right?"

"Yeah, right," the child scuffled his toe across the lush grass of Mimi's walled-in garden.

That battle won, John pressed on, "If you're shot, fall down. No getting up, no getting well."

The neighbourhood gang nodded in unison. Even those who had two years on John's three acquiesced to his dictatorial leadership. The games commenced under Lennon scrutiny and bulldog supervision.

Around teatime, the ceremonious arrival of Uncle George interrupted the play. He swung John up in the air like a sack of feed for one of his prize dairy cows. John giggled joyously, all his Indian deviousness forgotten, his commander's role abandoned. He was immediately a little boy again.

"Stand back now," George put him down, "and let me see how much you've grown, our John." John stretched up to his full height, shoulders back like a miniature soldier. "Goodness gracious me, inches and inches in only one week! Why you'll be tall as the tower of London before you're through, won't you?"

"That big?" John delighted in the fantasy. He had seen the tower in Mimi's All About London Town. It was a beautiful colour illustration, two full pages.

"Big enough to rescue a fair princess, I'd say," George added with a smile.

"Big enough to kill cowboys?" John threw a sideways glance at the boys waiting on the sidewalk.

"Well, all mixed metaphors aside, I'd say that's possible. Anything's possible if you're taller than the Tower of London!"

George took John's hand and began leading him into the house. The cluster of cowboys behind him was forgotten as easily as they had been corralled. John's eyes were locked on his uncle's.

In the pristine Mendips foyer, George hung up his jacket and slipped off his work shoes, placing them neatly outside the front door, in the glassed-in vestibule, just as Mimi desired. John put his foot alongside his uncle's socked one, measuring carefully, looking critically for some perceptible change.

"See there," George praised him, "getting bigger and bigger all the time, then." John basked in the unaccustomed recognition.

"'Home the hunter, home from the hill!'" Julia quoted Stevenson as she sauntered towards them, coat and umbrella in her hand. She gave George a wrap-around hug and peck on the cheek.

"Hello, Judy!" George was ever pleasant.

"I don't want to go now!" John's voice, full of rage, cut through their small talk. "Ge'rge is home. I want tea! I want to read! I won't go now! I won't!" His eyes were locked on Julia's coat and parasol, and he shook with outrage.

"Hush, John," Julia's brow instantly wrinkled. "Mind yer manners. No need to throw hysterics; y'er not off without yer Uncle George. In fact, our Mimi's offered to let you stay the night."

"Oh." The boy now seemed as disconcerted to remain behind as he had been to leave only moments earlier. He wanted it all... George and Mimi and his mother, too. Why did she have to leave? Why couldn't they just all stay and visit? Why did it always have to be one or the other? 

"I don't want to stay all by myself," he muttered very quietly, "I don't want to."

"Well, well ­ we'll have a listen to 'Dick Barton, Special Agent', won't we?" George bribed him with one of his favourite radio programmes, "and I might, just might have a brand new sketch pad and colours for some very, very good and talented, young lad."

"You might?" John's mood lightened a bit.

"Besides," Julia knelt down close to her son, rubbing his back comfortingly, "I'll be back bright and early tomorrow morning, first thing, won't I?"

"No," the three-year-old said flatly. "You never are."

"Much ado, John; much ado," Mimi intervened, one hand on an aproned hip. "Come along right now and wash up for tea. You'll see Mum tomorrow, then. And you're much, much too old to be homesick on a mere evening sleepover, are you not?"

No one ever disagreed with Mimi. No one. So despite the empty, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, John nodded and started to obey.

Halfway down the hall, however, he turned and ran back to Julia, almost knocking her over with the force of his hug, clinging to her like a frightened animal. She hugged him back, but only for a brief moment. Julia was the first to let go.

She stood and smiled and ruffled John's hair. With George's help, she put on her coat and in convincing tones promised the boy, "I'll be waiting to hear the latest adventures of that bad, bad Just William, y'know. Listen to George carefully! Don't miss a bit of the episode!"

"William's not bad," John wrinkled his brow. "just in-cor. .incor. ." Struggling with the grown-up word George had been teaching him, John glanced at his uncle.

Julia laughed, buttoning the last button. "Incorrigible, John!" She said it for him. "Incorrigible. And that's you any day of the week, pet. Just William-John. My own incorrigible boy!"

"Not in this house, he's not," Mimi beckoned John to her. "He's as good as bread and," she checked before she said it, "no dirt behind the ears."

"He's delightful, our John," George agreed. "Just absolutely delightful."

Julia raised her eyebrows in disbelief and then tossed them all a parting smile and a wave.

"Good luck, then," she half-teased, "but I'm willing to wager you'll find it's not all that easy, livin' with Mr. delightful." And with that, she breezed out the door.

John walked to the window and watched her go. Her step was light and rapid, almost a dance. Her hair bounced on her shoulders as she walked, and John could imagine the clicking sound her high heels made on the sidewalk as she quickly disappeared. He tapped with his fingernail on the window, imitating the sound her shoes made. But over the tapping, he could hear the muffled voices coming from the kitchen.

"Well, he's better off here, and you know it, George."

"Perhaps so, but is he happier, Mimi? You know as well as I do how he blindly dotes on Judy."

"Yes, of course. But she's inconsistent George, in and out, flighty as a sparrow. She's no sense of responsibility whatsoever, and she's no inkling how to raise a child. Judy's overly affectionate one minute and then totally unavailable the next, larking about with her girl friends and staying out all night with God knows whom, God knows where. She's far too permissive, but only because she doesn't want to struggle for discipline. And she's unbelievably frustrated with a child as precocious as John is. You've got to be honest about it, George ­ in every aspect, our Judy's ruining John."

"But," the firm male voice reminded her, "he loves her."

"Yes, well," Mimi closed the subject once and for all, "the things we love are not always the things that are good for us, you know."

The voices hushed. Julia had gone. The sidewalk was empty now, and dusk and a seasonal fog had turned the yard a smoky grey. John blew hot breath upon the cold window and frosted a portion of the pane. Mimi always fussed, but George, nevertheless, had taught him to draw snowflakes in the hazy patch of icing.

Now his small, nimble fingers produced not artwork but lettering, well formed and clear; it was excellent for a three-year-old. Anyone could read it. "J-O-H-N" he had written in tall, lovely letters. And underneath, in penman's best, the child had carved a second word. "M-U-M," was all it said.

All events are documented; all conversation is conjecture.