‘All right then,’ she said. ‘You’ve given me permission, Owen.’ She washed her hands under the hot tap and wiped them on the tea-towel. ‘Thank you.’ It was her last batch of bread. ‘Go and get your good clothes on, Owen. I’ll meet you at the car in half an hour. Wear something your mother will like.’

What would Mother like me to wear? What would Mother like me to wear? What would Mother like me to wear? I stood at the wardrobe and could not answer this question. Coats hung on good quality wooden hangers. Shirts were pressed. There was even a jerkin, and—on a thin arm of plastic-coated metal inside the wardrobe door—two ties.