Maybe he shouldn’t go home quite yet. Maybe he should drive into town and buy a paper. Maybe he’ll find something for Evan there, a little treat to welcome him back. So, climbing into the car, he turns it round, but instead of heading up his own lane, he stays on the road, leaving Ainsclough Top to its own brooding isolation.

The lanes are dark and slushy with the remains of winter’s first snow, which melts on contact with the roadside puddles and is too wet to make an impact on the tarmac. Claire wonders if Evan’s sleeping, but he’s still and quiet much of the time these days, and stillness and silence are indicators of nothing.

The headlamps light familiar landmarks. A stand of trees too large to be a copse but not quite big enough to be a wood – which Evan knows is a perfect place to look for owls – looms up out of the dusk, just before the lopsided milestone Jack says has been there three hundred years, its guidance – Harrogate 27 miles – barely readable for its covering of moss.

Beyond the milestone, Claire makes the turn across the stream, on to the track up to the house, and Evan stirs, sits up and looks about him, as if he feels it’s safe to come back to life.

Jack’s been dozing on the sofa, and the fire’s burned low. Rousing himself when he sees the headlights on the wall and hears the crunch of stones under tyres, he crosses to the hearth, chooses a couple of good-sized logs and drops them on the embers. The dry bark pops and crackles, and smoke begins to rise. He closes the curtains and, making his way into the kitchen, turns on the light.

‘We brought fish and chips, Grandpa!’

Evan’s laying the paper-wrapped parcel on the table, and heading to the cupboard for plates.

Jack smiles.

‘Did you now? And what kind of fish have you brought for yourself? Not those sausagey ones, I hope?’

‘Mum said I could have three.’

‘Well, your mother’s madly irresponsible.’

He resists the strong urge to ask about how the day’s gone or make any reference to it at all, except for a slight raising of the eyebrows in Claire’s direction. She signals with a slight nod of the head, OK, but she’s marvelling at Evan, at how now he’s home – for this surely is his home, now – he’s a different child to the one he is in the outside world.

Evan’s loading up the plates, pouring mushy peas on to his own.

‘I’m watching you,’ says Jack. ‘Don’t you be snaffling my chips!’

They eat at the kitchen table, Evan dousing his food in vinegar and dipping his chips in ketchup.

‘You never used to like vinegar,’ says Claire.

‘It’s Grandpa’s fault,’ says Evan. ‘He puts vinegar on everything.’