“He’s just gone outside,” said my mother’s mother.
Something splashed heavily on the hall linoleum. It was a drop of moisture from Mrs. Smith’s forehead.
“Tell him,” she said, “that he’s the father of a son.”
My mother’s mother gave a great cry. My father was beside her in a single leap. Always, as I have said, highly coloured, his face at this moment seemed literally on fire. The two fellow-members of my mother’s Mothers’ Guild, accompanied by my father’s five sisters-in-law, rushed into the hall. Mrs. Smith leaned over the banisters.
“A boy,” she said. “It’s a boy.”
“A boy?” said my father.
“Yes, a boy,” said Mrs. Smith.
There was a moment’s hush, and then Nature had its way. My father unashamedly burst into tears. My mother’s mother kissed him on the neck just as the two fellow-members burst into a hymn; and a moment later, my mother’s five sisters burst simultaneously into the doxology. Then my father recovered himself and held up his hand.
“I shall call him Augustus,” he said, “after myself.”
“Or tin?” suggested my mother’s mother. “What about calling him tin, after the saint?”