A car engine starts up outside, and its radio bursts into life midway through ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday’. I can hear the family inside singing along as they drive off. For some reason, the sound fills me with an intense sadness. My family was Mum and Daphne. One is gone and now the other might be too.

Those old feelings of self-pity start to stir inside me again: the childish sense of injustice, the inclination to hide away, feeling sorry for myself, getting angry at things I can’t define and forces I can’t see.

I have to fight that. Another nugget of Harv-brand wisdom pops into my head: You’re not going to get Daphne back by wallowing in your own misery, are you? You have to believe in yourself a bit more.

He said it off the cuff, I think – out of sheer frustration with my moaning – but for some reason, it gives me strength. I can do this. I can be a better man. I can make Mum proud, make Daphne proud, make myself proud.

I take a deep breath and stand up, and as I pull the curtains open, sunlight floods the room. The sky is a clear blue, and it’s cold, crisp and bright outside: a beautiful Christmas Day.

I seal the lids back on the biscuit tins. Enough digging through the past. It’s the present that matters now. As I take them back up to the attic and tidy up the mess I made, I spot something else: the box of Christmas tree decorations. I did promise Daphne I’d put them up. And even if it’s way too late, it’s about time I started keeping my promises.

Downstairs, in the sun-soaked living room, I open the box and start stringing tinsel and fairy lights around the tree’s branches in much the same haphazard way I remember Mum doing when I was a kid.

I know it’s not much, and there’s no one else here to see it, but still … It feels like the first step on a long road ahead.

Chapter Fifty

London, 25 December 2021

The kettle’s boiling, the bacon’s sizzling and the scrambled eggs have just hit that split-second sweet spot between too runny and too firm.

I dish the food out onto two plates, humming along to ‘Jingle Bell Rock’, which is currently thumping out of the radio on top of the fridge. Moving quickly around the tinsel-lined kitchen, I plunge the cafetière and pour two cups of fresh hot coffee, as well as two glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice. I arrange everything neatly on the trays and stand back to admire my work: perfect.

I flick the radio off, but just as I’m about to head up to the bedroom, I wonder if, actually, I should let her sleep in a bit longer.