Benedict pulled the dog from the bed bodily, heaving him on to the floor where Nipper sat with his huge tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth, panting from exertion.

‘I’m sorry, Papa, but he likes you. I try and keep him out of your way...’ His voice trailed off and Benedict hunched his shoulders in exasperation.

Henry looked at the boy closely. Other than those startling green Cavanagh eyes, it could have been his own mother standing there. Benedict had unconsciously used a movement of his mother’s. She would tilt her head to the side and smile at him, hunching her shoulders, exactly as Benedict had, when she couldn’t answer his constant questions. For the first time ever, he felt a flicker of interest in the boy.

‘Do that again, boy.’

Benedict shrugged.

‘Do what, Papa?’

Henry parodied his action and Benedict laughed. He held out his hands, hunched up his shoulders and did as his father asked him. For the first time ever, Henry smiled at the boy, a genuine smile.

‘Isabel, get my albums from the bottom drawer in my dressing room.’

Amazed, she did as she was told. Benedict stood by the bed and stroked Nipper’s ears absently as he waited for his father to speak again. He was unsure what he should do. His father actually having a conversation with him was so rare. It normally only came about when his school work was not up to par. Then he was upbraided soundly.

Henry laughed again, a wide open laugh that showed his teeth. ‘Here it is, look! Look at that, boy.’

Benedict took the photograph from his father’s hand and looked down at a woman dressed in black bombazine. She had white hair and a sad smile on her face.

‘That’s my mother, your grandmother.’

Benedict looked into his father’s face and said: ‘She’s very pretty.’

Henry nodded sagely. ‘She was very pretty. Too pretty, some thought. But I always loved her dearly, she was a good woman.’

Isabel stood in absolute shock and amazement as father and son chatted for the first time ever.

‘What happened to her, Papa?’

‘Oh, she died when I was a lad. Not that much older than you. She had many children but they all died. My mother died because of that. Because she was too gentle, too fine-boned to have children. She was like a child herself. Her laughter was so beautiful ... she was a generous woman, and doted on me of course. We would play hide and go seek and blind man’s buff with my old nurse Hattie.’

He stared into the distance as if seeing them all again. Benedict looked at the old sepia photograph with interest. ‘Have you any more photographs, Papa? I’d love to hear about my grandmother. I’ve seen the painting of her in the drawing room so many times and I’ve often wondered about her.’