She nods, and blows her nose on a handkerchief embroidered with primroses.

‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘Of course you’re right. Not going would be far worse than going, so we’d better pack up and get on.’

All the way south, Dora is quiet, and Jack lets her be so. At Peterborough, they stop for tea and buttered scones, and by the time they reach the M25, it’s close to rush hour. Traffic crawls. Even in his shirt-sleeves, Jack’s too hot. It’s time to take one of his tablets, but they’re in a suitcase in the back. When they reach the turn-off to Matt’s, Dora’s dozing, her eyebrows pulled together, frowning as she sleeps.

It’s been a while since they’ve been down here, not since the Christmas before Evan was taken. Last Christmas he and Dora spent alone, with a roast chicken for lunch and a bottle of wine, no tree, no decorations, no presents. There have been changes in the town – a street he used to go down is now one-way – and for a few minutes he thinks they’re lost, until he sees a Tesco he remembers.

He gives Dora a gentle nudge.

‘Wake up, love,’ he says. ‘We’re nearly there.’

Dora rouses herself, looks in the sun-visor mirror, pats at her hair and freshens her lipstick. She puts her hand over Jack’s on the gearstick and gives it a squeeze.

They’re turning into Matt’s road. The house is straight ahead.

‘Ready, Mrs Ferrers?’ asks Jack, and Dora nods.

‘The garden’s looking nice,’ says Jack, even though it isn’t, beyond the grass being carelessly cut.

Matt’s come striding out to greet them as they pull up in the drive, and he hugs his father in a way Jack can’t remember him ever doing before. It’s a hug filled with relief, a survivor’s hug, with a loud subtext of Thank Christ.

Dora thinks Claire looks unwell, though she’s smiling as she kisses Dora on the cheek.

Claire leads the way into the house.

‘I’ll bet you’re ready for a cup of tea,’ she says.

‘Or a cold beer,’ says Matt. ‘That’s what I’m going to have. Dad, can I get you one?’

‘By and by,’ says Jack. ‘There’s business to attend to, first.’

The kitchen smells of frying garlic and tomatoes. There’s a bottle of red wine open on the counter from which one glass is already gone.

‘I’m doing spaghetti and meatballs,’ says Claire. She switches on the kettle and takes mugs down from a cupboard. ‘I thought we’d all like that.’

Dora has brought in nothing from the car but her handbag and the cake tin.

‘I made his favourite,’ she says, and looks into the lounge. ‘Where is he?’