Then, every day was a week, each month a year. A season was a decade, and every year a life.

* * *

"But dad, Mrs McBeath says there is so a God, and you'll go to a bad place."

"Mrs McBeath is an idiot."

"No she's no, dad! She's a teacher!"

"No she's not, or better still, no she isn't. Don't use the word 'no' when you mean 'not'."

"But she's no a niddyott, dad! She is a teacher. Honest."

He stopped on the path, turned to look at the boy. The other children stopped too, grinning and giggling. They were almost at the top of the hill, just above the Forestry Commission's arbitrary tree line. The cairn was visible, a lump on the sky-line. "Prentice," he said. "People can be teachers and idiots; they can be philosophers and idiots; they can be politicians and idiots… in fact I think they have to be… a genius can be an idiot. The world is largely run for and by idiots; it is no great handicap in life and in certain areas is actually a distinct advantage and even a prerequisite for advancement."

Several of the children giggled.

"Uncle Kenneth," Helen Urvill sang out. "Our daddy said you were a commie." Her sister, alongside her on the path and holding her hand, gave a little squeal and put her free hand up to her mouth.

"Your father is absolutely correct, Helen," he smiled. "But only in the pejorative sense, and not the practical one, unfortunately."

Diana squealed again and hid her face, giggling. Helen looked puzzled.

"But dad," Prentice said, pulling at his sleeve. "Dad, Mrs McBeath is a teacher, really she is, and she said there is so a God."

"And so did Mr Ainstie, too, dad," Lewis added.

"Yes, I've talked to Mr Ainstie," McHoan told the older boy. "He thinks we should send troops to help the Americans in Viet Nam."