John's sixteen-year-old daughter, Christine, was sitting at the table doing her homework. His son Andrew, who was thirteen, was watching television.

'Thanks, Christine,' John said. 'I'm sorry I'm late. Is everything OK?'

Once, when his wife had been alive, he had had a fine house. A beautiful big house in the country, with a large gar-den. They had had lots of new furniture, two cars, expensive holidays-everything they needed. He had had a good job; they hadn't needed to think about money. And then he had started the boat-building company, and his luck had ended.

'Fine, thanks.' Christine gave him a quick smile, then con-tinued with her work. John got his food from the kitchen. Fried fish and chips. The food was dry and didn't taste very good. But he didn't say anything about that. John was not a good cook himself and his children were no better. His wife had been a good cook, he remembered.

'Hi, Dad. Your supper's in the kitchen.'

John tried to eat the terrible supper and looked around the small, miserable flat. The furniture was twenty years old, the wallpaper and carpets were cheap and dirty. The rooms were all small, and he could see no trees or gardens from the win-dows-just the lights from hundreds of other flats. And there were books, clothes, and newspapers on the floor.

When Rachel had died, John had been terribly unhappy-much too unhappy to think about business. A few months later his company had closed, and he had lost all his money. John had had to sell his beautiful house in the country, and move to this miserable flat.

She pushed the letter across the table, and he opened it. It was from her school. One of the teachers was taking the chil-dren on a skiing holiday to the mountains in Switzerland. It cost ￡ 400 for ten days. Parents who wanted their children to go had to send the money to the school before February 25th.

'Did you have a good day at school, Christine?'he asked her.

And for the last two years, he hadn't had a job at all. He was a poor man, and an unlucky one, too. He had tried for lots of jobs, and got none of them. There were too many bright young biologists. But now that was all going to change. He looked at his daughter and smiled.

'Oh, all right, I suppose,'she said. She didn't look very happy. 'I've got a letter for you.'

John's smile grew bigger. 'Do you want to go on this holi-day, Christine?' he asked.

She looked at him strangely. 'Of course I do, Dad,' she said. 'But I can't, can I? We haven't got ￡400.'

'No, I suppose not.' He looked at her carefully through his thick glasses. She was a clever, strong girl-good at her schoolwork, good at sports. But she had never been skiing; John hadn't had enough money.

'Are your friends going?'he asked her.

'Some of them, yes. Miranda, Jane, Nigel-the rich ones, you know. But they often go skiing; it's easy for them. I know I can't go, Dad. Throw the letter away.'

'Oh, not now, Dad!'said Andrew. 'This is an exciting story.'

John stood up. He went into the kitchen and got himself a drink. 'No,' he said, when he came back. 'But something interesting happened today. Put your homework away, Chris-tine-and turn that TV off, Andrew. I've got something to tell you. '

Christine laughed. 'What's happened, Dad? Have you robbed a bank or something?'

John looked at her, and felt his heart beating quickly. 'No, don't do that, Christine,' he said. 'Perhaps you can go, if you want to. Why not?'

John Duncan's children lived in an old, untidy flat, they had no money, and they often ate awful food. Bux they could still talk to their father. So Andrew turned off the TV, and sat down in a big armchair beside his father and Christine.

John smiled. 'I've got an exciting story, too, Andrew. Come and listen.'

The story didn't sound very exciting at first. 'I went to a factory today,'John said.' That paint factory by the river. No, wait, Andrew. Paint factories can be very exciting. They gave me a job there. I'm going to have my own office, a big car, lots of money-in fact, we're going to be rich…!'