‘Haven’t had fireworks for yonks,’ I said. ‘My Dad used to do one or two, for me, but it wasn’t much fun.’

‘Why?’

‘He said they were dangerous. He didn’t understand that that was the point.’

‘It was fun today.’

I nodded, and started up the engine.

I glanced down at the cubbyhole but it didn’t seem appropriate, somehow, to give him the presents. By now that other boy, who had never existed anyway, had dissolved and he had taken Sinbad and Mr Toad with him. It wasn’t quite that Edward was too old for the gifts, though this might have been the case. It was simply that they were no longer for this Edward. They seemed date-expired.

He showed me where to go—a large newsagent’s near the centre of town. It was just closing. A father came out of the door; he had two children with him and their breath smoked in the evening air. Edward and I took his place at the counter, inspecting the depleted display. Just for this evening I was another father, home rather late, with another son. I bought two boxes—the most expensive ones. Perhaps fathers who were late always bought the most expensive boxes.

Then I thought: why should I feel guilty? None of this had been my fault, not really. It was simpler to blame Lesley and call myself a casualty of women’s lib. Edward carried out the package; we’d remembered the sparklers.

But I knew that it wasn’t this simple. Nothing was as simple as I had thought it; not now. In the streetlight the coach looked as huge as an opera house; some of its curtains were still closed, which gave it a secretive air, as if lives were led in there rather than just journeys taken.

I would miss it, when I gave it back. An old woman stopped and gazed as we climbed in. Suddenly life seemed so strange, and yet so ordinary, that I felt emptied of breath.

I started the engine. ‘I drive children to pantos in these,’ I said. ‘You like pantomimes?’

‘Mum took me to Cats.’

‘Did you like it?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘She took you to London?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Just think,’ I said. ‘We could have met.’

‘In Spalding, one of the Ugly Sisters was my teacher. He looked a wally, with his moustache.’

‘Would you like to live in London?’ I asked. ‘See the shows?’

He shrugged. We drove on in silence. Now we were together, I didn’t know what we could chat about. I wasn’t used to talking to children.

Edward said: ‘A boy in my class, his Dad’s an actor. He’s in the Cup A Soup ad.’

‘Fancy that.’

‘He’s gone to live in Los Angeles now.’

‘The boy in your class?’

He shook his head. ‘Just his Dad.’

‘Ah.’ I slowed down and turned into a side road. ‘Want to steer?’

‘Can I?’