‘I . . . The thing is . . .’ The man began, then stopped, capable only of false starts. He seemed in a terrible state. Something about him was familiar and Katie was filled with the oddest sensation, half dread, half trembling. She had wondered if one day Simon would come – would he ever? – to find her, find his son. But this was not Simon Collinge . . .

‘Are you Katie O’Neill?’ the man said at last. She saw him staring hard at Michael, who had also come back down and was standing beside her, holding onto her skirt.

She nodded. ‘Why – who are you?’ She glanced at Marek, who was also looking bewildered.

‘My name . . .’ He stopped, in difficulty, and cleared his throat. ‘My name is Michael O’Neill.’

‘No, it isn’t!’ Katie heard her son pipe up crossly from her side. ‘That’s my name!’

The man smiled faintly. ‘Is it now?’ She heard the Irish in his voice. She was finding it hard to breathe.

‘What d’you mean?’ she asked faintly. ‘Who are you? Why are you here?’

‘I think I must be your father,’ he said with an air of humble apology. He was turning the hat round and round in his hands.

Katie heard Marek gasp, or had she gasped herself? She wasn’t sure. Her legs were suddenly so useless that she stepped back and had to sit on the bottom step.

‘Mom?’ Michael sounded panicky. ‘What’s the matter? Who’s the man?’

‘But . . .’ All Katie could say was, ‘No. No. You’re dead. You died. She told me.’ She was shaking her head, her whole body beginning to tremble.

‘Is that what she told you? Well, I suppose it was for the best – I might as well have done, I suppose.’ There was a long pause as they stared at each other. ‘You’re mine all right,’ he said. ‘You’re the girl I remember – and look at him.’ He nodded at Michael. ‘He’s the image of you.’

‘Why . . . what . . . ? But you were in bed – you had TB. I saw you. You were sick . . . And then you went to the hospital and you never came back . . .’ She clutched at the wooden banister, needing something to hang on to. ‘I remember it – I swear I do.’

‘It’s true, I was sick at one time – I remember. I had some chest problem, bronchitis or something. And I was in bed. She must have told you . . . Or you got it muddled. But I didn’t die. I’ – he held his hands out helplessly – ‘I left. I had to; she was . . . impossible . . .’

Katie’s mind was spinning. She couldn’t think what to ask about the past. Everything she had believed was exploding into pieces. She felt as if she too might fall apart. Why should she want to know about him? Why ask? But she couldn’t seem to stop staring at him.