She frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

I listened to her footsteps going down the stairs. The next moment I was fumbling through a drawerful of index cards. Some were yellowed; I hoped they weren’t out of date. Forster … Fairlie … Flexner … Faversham. I couldn’t work out the alphabet; I must be going to bits.

But then I realized that somebody else had mis-filed them. For some reason it was a relief, feeling I was less scatty than another person. I was sweating. At any moment the Scots bloke would be coming back. I flicked through the cards; my fingertips felt sore.

Just as I found Lesley, I heard his footsteps on the stairs. Lesley Featherstone, 38 Laurel Road. I memorized it, pushed back the drawer of the filing cabinet and pressed myself against it.

He came in. He was a slight chap, wearing a lumberjack’s shirt.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

I steadied my breath. Then I said: ‘I was wondering if I could apply for membership.’

I wore my badge on my anorak. I’d nothing against the CND; besides, it might soften Lesley up.

My stomach churned. I walked down towards the cattle market. The sight of her typed address had transformed this town, as if I was seeing it through another camera lens. My legs felt springy.

I went into a W H Smith and found a Beezer, Beano and Mad. When I lifted them from the rack, my hand was trembling. I felt different today; I realized that I hadn’t truly believed I’d find him in London or Leicester. He was so close now; he was breathing behind me. I looked at a Daily Mail. Above a photo of Princess Di was a headline about the American hostages still being held in Beirut. My son, too, was waiting to be rescued. Innocent, he didn’t even know the footsteps were getting nearer.

‘George, old cock!’ One man slapped another on the back. They were friendly, up here, in the shops. Today, ruddy and expansive, everybody was on my side. They knew the value of family life; women didn’t commit adultery, they devoted themselves to flower arrangements.

I went over to the cassettes. I had never noticed how many were made for children. I inspected the display of Favourite Fairy Stories, read aloud by TV personalities. He was too old for Puss in Boots, I decided. Sinbad the Sailor was more his line. An assistant was stocking some shelves nearby; he was no more than a boy himself.

‘What would you recommend, chief?’ I asked him. ‘For a bloke of eleven?’ I paused. ‘My son.’

‘There’s Madonna,’ he said, pointing. ‘Duran Duran.’

‘Not pop music!’ I cried. ‘He’s a child!’

The assistant shrugged. I turned back and selected Sinbad and The Wind in the Willows. My parents had taken me to the panto and I had laughed at Mr Toad.

I was back in Windermere by 11.30. It was another sunny day; the mountains were pasteboardy, like a stage set, and near enough to touch. I drove down to the lakeside and parked outside the Old England. My coach blocked the entrance, but they would presume I’d decanted some old biddies for elevenses. The lake was bright blue, like a swimming pool; it didn’t seem real. It was a different lake today. I was humming, to calm my nerves. I tried to remember the words of Eleanor Rigby; that usually did the trick.