By 2.30 I was driving into Spalding. Despite the flat countryside it was a surprisingly pretty town, with a market square in the middle. I had covered 240 miles today, from mountains to fens; I felt I was taking a geography lesson from my own son.

I parked in the square, went into the hotel and sat in the window seat of the bar, to get my bearings. Through the glass my coach faced me, nice and close. Its radiator was furred with dust; above it was the word OLVO. I wondered where the V had fallen off.

Behind me, two men were talking. ‘Golf GTi, brand new, D reg,’ said one. ‘Vanished into thin air. Not a dickybird since last March. Had all my papers in it, my kid’s birthday present, pile of letters I was going to post. Whoever it was, if I find him I’ll blow him to pieces.’

‘Probably on the continent by now. Quick spray job, new numberplates.’

‘Right outside my house. What’s the bloody world coming to?’

I realized, with surprise, that I hadn’t thought of my car for two days. The old bitterness rose. She had taken my house and my car. I couldn’t even remember what my parents looked like, she had chopped them up with her scissors. My past was as vacant as my coach; I dragged it around behind me, and when I turned my head all its seats were empty.

I calmed myself down; this wasn’t the way to greet my son and his parents. I needed all my faculties today.

The Golf man told me the way to East Fen Road. I backed the coach out. Exhaust fumes blew about and a woman, wheeling a pram, glared at me. I wanted to say: it’s not my fault. And did she know what the petrol was costing me?

I couldn’t imagine Lesley living at a place called Graceland. She must have come up in the world. The only Graceland I knew was Elvis Presley’s home—as big as Buckingham Palace and covered in pillars. I’d seen photos. I drove through the suburbs of Spalding. Fields stretched out, flat and grey under a grey sky; here and there stood a bungalow and a row of collapsing greenhouses. In a farmyard stood an abandoned double-decker bus.

Funnily enough I didn’t feel nervous. I must have used all that up, over the past few days. There wasn’t a drop left. I had had so many shocks and surprises—the chopper bike in the hall, the demolished houses, the butcher talking about a wheelchair. My spirits had been so battered that I was drained of energy. I felt harder. I suppose it was the presence of another bloke. Last Sunday, when I’d seen a strange man coming out of my house, something inside me had died. Today there was another strange man in a house that should have been mine. I felt exhausted.

What could I say? That I was an old friend and had just popped in for a cup of tea? Perhaps she would kick Barry out; perhaps she would tell Edward I was his real father and we were going to start up all over again. (I wasn’t too sure about this; I didn’t think I really wanted Lesley.) We would settle down in Graceland and it was Barry’s turn to go and live above Costas’s electrical shop.