I remember how much I like Tom. He is a quality kid: modest; good-hearted; interested in the world. I don’t need any more reasons to like him. But there is another significant one: he was a friend of James’s and the fact that he’s the best of what young men can be, not the worst, reflects well on my son and my memory of my son. My reasons for liking him are nothing to be proud of.

‘Pretty good, all in all. Did you get yourself a job?’

‘Yep. At the paper. Waterglen Times.’ I remember that Tom wanted to be a reporter, even though the job had become quaint and kind of old-fashioned. His parents don’t have much money, so I guess he’s decided to hold off on university until he can get some cash together himself.

‘Well, good on you.’ He looks slightly embarrassed, which might be from my encouragement, or the fact that he is working at a newspaper which is only just that. ‘Been there long?’

‘Few months.’

‘Excellent — a working man.’ I’m trying to choose between hugging and walking away without saying another word. Neither option would be fair to him. ‘How’s it going?’

‘I think I’m getting the hang of it. Made one mistake, though.’

One big mistake by the local newspaper comes to mind, though it is no orphan. ‘Elaine Slade?’ I say it wincing, not meaning to make him relive it, but unable to go in any other direction.

‘Yes. I got the names mixed up, and I was the only one in the office. Guess I would have been fired anywhere else.’ He looks embarrassed, but I can tell he’s almost past worrying about it. He must have had to explain himself many times.

‘Shit happens, eh?’

He gives me a half-chuckle, and agrees. I ask him if his parents are all right, and then leave him with a weak joke about going to the grog shop, the most important grocery shop. I look back, and see him turn and walk out into the car park alone and unsure, and I feel a good old stab of self-hatred. I direct my trolley towards the security of alcohol.