Everyone’s on the move, carrying things to the table, pulling things out of cupboards, filling a water jug; adults and teenagers in a melee of movement and noise in a kitchen bigger than the floor plan of his entire flat. Mr Mussey’s hand on his back exerts enough pressure to push him towards the table, a huge, cross-hatched thing that sits in the curve of the generous bay window. Martin has already slid onto the ledge of the bay which is padded with long cushions, indicating for William to join him. Like iron filings, the bodies in the room converge and sit, and all the hustle and bustle becomes an energy focused on the serving bowls. Sitting opposite him on high-backed pine chairs are Imogen and Isobel, Martin’s terrifyingly pretty twin sisters, and Richard. Mr and Mrs Mussey sit at either end and it must be the third brother, Edward, sitting on the other side of Martin.

‘Roast Henrietta and Mabel tonight. God rest their souls,’ Mr Mussey booms, red hair flopping over his brow as he sets to Henrietta or Mabel with a carving knife, with all the latent energy and enthusiasm William has always enjoyed in Martin.

‘Flo, are you sure you don’t want any meat?’ Mrs Mussey says over her shoulder.

William wonders where Flo is going to sit, but she has a coat on and is standing with her back to them, laying a piece of foil over a plate.

‘I’m fine with this, thank you.’ Flo smiles from the back door, the plate balanced in one hand. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, Flo,’ the family shout back, some turning, some carrying on with what they’re doing.

‘She goes off meat when we eat something she’s known since it hatched,’ Richard tells William, as Flo closes the door with a waft of cold air. ‘The softest cook in Sussex.’

William assumed Flo was one of the many aunts or godmothers or family friends Martin has talked about. He didn’t know families had cooks. Martin has never mentioned a cook!

Richard and Martin reach across the table and prod their forks into the meat as soon as it flops away from the carcass onto the serving plate, the crispy crinkled skin separating from the flesh as it falls. At home, Evelyn brings his plate to the table, already served. Does he reach out and help himself? Does he wait? Martin saves him by dropping the second two slices he takes onto William’s plate, and proceeds to take two servings of everything, one for William, then one for himself; roast potatoes, mashed potatoes, cauliflower cheese, peas, carrots and gravy – the sort of meal William would have expected at Christmas or a special Sunday lunch.

‘What a sweet boy you are,’ says Mr Mussey to Martin, rubbing his head. ‘Do you see that, darling? He’s actually thinking of someone else.’