I was getting fond of my Panorama Elite. Outside its doors I felt increasingly exposed; inside it I felt safe. A bloke hanging around a street gets some funny looks, but a bloke sitting in a coach is just a driver. He must be waiting for somebody.

To tell the truth, my mother wasn’t much of a cook. I hadn’t put it into words until today, when I’d remembered her mince. It wasn’t nearly as tasty as the school stuff. Once I’d gone into the kitchen and found her crying. She was mashing potato. It had scared me out of my wits. There was her back view, shaking; the bow of her apron hadn’t been tied properly, which alarmed me. She didn’t know I was there. I realized now that she had large legs—fat, really.

Then she turned. Her face was contorted; it was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen in my life. She covered her face with her hand, quickly, and said in a level voice: ‘Pop out and get some firelighters.’ I had tried to reply; I said: ‘Honestly, Mum, we don’t mind the lumps.’ She turned away and said: ‘Pop out, Desmond.’

For thirty years I had forgotten about this. At the time I had presumed she was worried about her cooking. You feel secure, don’t you, when you give yourself that sort of reason? Children want to feel secure. I thought of the three of us watching Sunday Night at the London Palladium on TV; now I remembered the noise that had accompanied it—my father’s snores. Fathers slept, mothers cooked. That’s what families did, didn’t they? That was all I knew.

I had done my best to carry on the family tradition. My mother wasn’t like Eleni; she hadn’t nudged Dad’s ribs and sniggered to her female friends. He wasn’t up to much, Mrs Selwyn had said. Why had her words filled me with fear?

I started up the coach and drove back towards the M6. But instead of by-passing Kendal I drove in and parked beside the cattle market again. Shops which had just opened this morning were closing up now; it was hard to believe that a day had passed. Since I’d left London the clocks had taken on a life of their own. Today the hours had disappeared down a sort of funnel.

The Scots bloke was in the office. He was trying to open a plastic cup of soup. He looked up and said: ‘Why did you say you were a mate of mine?’

‘I was lonely.’

He grinned, got the lid off, swore and sucked his fingers.

It was true, actually. I hadn’t had a conversation for days. Weeks. Years. I said: ‘Did you know Lesley Featherstone?’

‘Sure.’

‘You did?’

‘She was always pinching my fags.’ He took a sip of soup and grimaced.

I removed a pile of envelopes from a chair and sat down. ‘Did you know her well? Where did she go?’

‘She came to the sit-in at Sellafield. Had a great pair of lungs on her.’ He took another sip. ‘This isn’t tomato. We delivered some leaflets together.’