‘What on earth are you doing here?’

‘I want to come with you,’ he said.

‘Don’t be silly.’

He sniffed. ‘I’m bored.’

‘Bored? At your age?’

‘It’s boring.’

‘What is?’

‘Everything.’

Boys shouldn’t talk like this. He sprawled on the seat. I looked at his blotchy face.

‘I was never bored when I was eleven,’ I said.

‘Well, I am.’

‘That’s not the way for a child to talk!’ I said. ‘There’s lots of things to do.’

‘What?’

‘Well. Bikes and … football …’ I gestured around. People waiting for the bus gazed up at us through the windows. ‘Trees to climb …’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Stuff like that.’

‘There’s nothing to sodding do.’

‘Don’t swear!’

He stared at me. His nose was running. I looked at him with distaste. With a jolt I wondered: would I actually like my son? Absolutely gorgeous, Pam had said. Could she be trusted? Could Edward be trusted now?

The coach darkened; a bus had double-parked beside us. The queue shuffled past; some of them glared up at us.

‘Anyway, soon you’ll be in Australia.’

For the first time, he brightened. ‘Dad’s in Australia.’

‘You’ve got a Dad?’

‘Course.’

‘Some people haven’t.’

He looked at me as if I were a backward pupil. ‘Everyone’s got a Dad.’

I gave him the Beezer. He said it was a kid’s comic, but he took it. I drove him back to the surgery and half an hour later I was on the M1 and the huge, blue, hopeful sign said Midlands and The North.

Six

Music was another thing that had annoyed my wife. My music, of course. But why shouldn’t I like Brian Poole and the Tremeloes? I felt safe, with Brian.

I blamed it on her age. She chortled over my Beatles photos; ‘The Fab Four!’ she whinnied. ‘Look at those trousers!’ Secretly I admitted that by now they did look funny, but it was a funniness I had been through and I prickled with loyalty for them. Eleni was ten years younger than me. I would forget that for a while, but music jolted us apart a decade. Some of it was jealousy. She thought all that free love and flower power meant I’d had a good time. I told her, truthfully, that growing up in the sixties was like hearing a party in the next room. So then she called me a fuddy-duddy. You can’t win.

I felt free in the car. I could play my tapes there. When you look at a traffic jam it seems senseless, miles of men bumper to bumper when it’s quicker by train. But I bet they’re all married. I had the cream of my cassettes in the Escort; I felt bitter about that, of course, and had demanded them back. I also had a few at the depot, which I’d bring with me in whatever vehicle I was driving. Eleni might sneer, but it can’t help lifting your spirits to hear a coachload of over-sixties singing along to Herman’s Hermits. There was always one brave soul who tries the harmonies.