Friday evening we sat out in the garden and he cooked a barbecue, something he’s always excelled at — it would seem that, if nothing else, he inherited ambidexterity from his father and the cool management of fire from me. He told me about his work, how well he and Ian are doing, about his plans to expand, to move to a bigger office. He described the decks Elemental have built and showed me the latest catalogue. I sat there in the evening sun, flicking through the shiny pages, wondering if he was destined to spend all his life launching these dry decks; a barren naval flotilla, floating across cityscapes.

Once he’d told me about Elemental he fell silent, as if he had nothing else to say. I watched him watching the sea and he looked as he did when he was a student at the school in Exeter, when he’d come home at the weekends exhausted by learning. He’d sit and stare unblinking at a wall, a table, a book, for hours. I never asked him then what he was thinking. I knew - maybe more than most people — that some thoughts are too personal to disclose. But this weekend I did reach out and touch his arm to bring him back. I asked him what he and Sonja were doing for the summer and he was evasive, vague. There’s something wrong there, I’m sure of it, the way he shied away from the question, clambered out of his chair to collect the plates, bowls and tongs and carry them to the kitchen. When he came back we sat in the late sun, reading papers until the light failed. This is England is at its best -June, when the heat’s rising and the evenings last for ever.

Saturday we drove to Daymer Bay — John’s suggestion — and walked round to Rock. When we got to the end of the beach and rounded the corner, an old wooden yacht, with heavy ivory spritsail and blue and white trim, was negotiating the narrow, sandy channel. John stopped and shaded his eyes to watch it glide past. Someone on the deck waved but John didn’t wave back. As we walked on he did an extraordinary thing: he took my hand and held it as we headed for the ferry to Padstow. He hasn’t held my hand for years - I can’t remember the last time. Even after he’d helped me into the ferry, he sat next to me and took my hand again. We wandered round the town, had lunch, and then caught the ferry back. The tide was running so we walked back over St Enodoc’s down to Daymer beach and sat for a while, watching children playing at the water’s edge, and I knew that both of us were thinking about when we used to do the same. When I’d watch John swim too far out and try to still my thumping heart by persuading myself he’d be all right. When he finally came in I’d towel him down and he’d complain that there was sand on the towel, which of course there was because every English picnic trip has sand in it. Then I’d pour tea from a flask and unwrap the newspapers parcelled round Ivor Dewdney dozoggie pasties we’d bought in Plymouth. We’d have sugary jam doughnuts and play the game not-licking-your-lips and I always lost.