I picked up the compact and read the tiny engraving for the first time: ‘amor vincit omnia’. Maybe it does. Maybe it does. How do I know whether it’s true? I opened the compact, looked at my snotty, red-eyed face. My new beauty? Ah, well.

‘Pumpkin, howsabout scrambled eggs on toast? Followed by a kite session on the beach? And then we can make plans for our secret, private, personal Christmas Day?’

And that’s what we did. I made a huge breakfast of everything in the fridge and then we walked down to the beach, both of us howling and laughing as the kite lifted, skittered, bowled along the sand and finally flew. Of course, I had to run with the kite because John’s legs aren’t strong enough yet. The exercise nearly did me in. John still had his pyjamas on with Hyacinth’s T-shirt flapping under his duffel coat. We checked the rock pools, then we built a sandcastle, complete with castellations and parapets. We made flags of seaweed and small, shiny whelk shells. As we watched the sun fall I took out the compact and again I tried to find my new beauty. Still can’t find it, Harry. Still can’t quite locate it.

I had to help my boy back home across the Christmas Day sands because his legs were hurting. He was draped over me like a long-loved, well-worn coat, because his legs hurt. I half carried him to bed — but for how much longer? He’s six two and growing. I pulled the blankets and sheet over him and he looked at me — I love him so much — and he said, ‘That’s the best Christmas, Mum. Best one I’ve had.’

I kissed him and turned to leave. Then I remembered something. ‘John, this morning, when I came in, you were saying something to yourself, over and over. What was it? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

He blinked sleepily. ‘It’s the song. The song that was playing on the radio when we went to London. I can still hear it if I think hard.’

‘Which song is it?’

His voice was off-key as he sang, ‘“Is that all there is? Is that all there is?” … I can’t remember the rest of it.’

I turned the light off before he could see my face change.

‘G’night, Mum,’ he said into the darkness.

Now here I am, in the kitchen, writing this, whisky in my hand. So - that was Christmas. Is that all there is?

12 June 1999

John came down for the weekend. An all-too-rare occurrence, which makes me feel that it is a duty rather than a pleasure. He came alone, as he always does, and we spent quiet time together. Perhaps it’s because I don’t see him often enough that I’m still amazed by his size? I often wonder how the stuttering Dr Webster knew that John would grow to six feet seven — is there a formula he used?