“So what's the form?" Peter turned to me, eyes shining. Living in the moment as the Entitled Age did, he'd already completely forgotten the office. The undulating green hills we'd plunged into told him where he was heading and there was even a flash of blue in the distance. That was enough. "I can't wait to have a swim. How is everyone?"

I could tell he'd deliberately couched it as if this was a perfectly normal situation. As if we did this all the time, he and I, visiting his grandparents. My heart lurched for what he'd never had: for what he was pretending he had ,now I pretended along with him, and gave him a — hopefully — light-hearted appraisal of everyone present, but majored on his grandfather, whom he adored, and who was always good value.

Peter guffawed, bent double in his seat with delight. "I can just imagine him — Grandpa's never sat still for two minutes! What possessed him to do it?"

"Your grandmother," I said archly, but hopefully not too tartly.

“Ah." He grinned. "Well, I'll get the Wayfarer out tomorrow. You won't see him for dust."

“Do not!" I said, horrified. "I mean do, by all means, but don't tell him! I'll never see him again."

"Or the Laser. I'll crew, he'll helm, just like the old days."

“Seriously, Peter, if you do that there'll be the most tremendous bust-up and Granny will be livid and I'll lose this effing commission." I raked a hand through my hair.

“Relax." He laughed. "I'm joking." He grinned out of the window. "A bit."

I smiled over the wheel as we drove on through the lanes that led to Trewarren and, as the scenery opened up and the sun came out, Peter turned up a song we both liked on the radio, Talking Heads. I sang along at the top of my voice which I complained children these days never did, too cool, and he made a mock horrified face. We laughed. Gosh, it was good to see him.

"How long are you staying?" I asked casually.

"Not sure," he said equally casually back, and I knew he was thinking: I'll see how it goes.

“There's this festival in Wales . . .”

"Oh yes, you said . . ."

"If I can be bothered.”

"Who's going?"

"Alex, Adam, Sam - the usual."

"I haven't met Adam?"

"Oh no, he's a friend of Sam's. Different school."

"Ah."

There was a silence.

“So . . . what is the form, Mum?"

"What d’you mean?" But I knew what he meant. And he'd asked earlier, when we'd set off, but I'd dodged it and moved swiftly on to his grandfather's idiosyncrasies.

"How's this all panning out?"