Dad dropped to my level and pulled me in for a hug. The softness of his suede jacket tickled my cheek. I could see his guitar behind him, perched against his chair. I hung from his neck like a monkey, giggling, ‘Stop it . . . stop it,’ as he kissed my head all over. ‘Will you help me colour in?’

The kisses ended and he released me. ‘I’ve got to go, Connie.’

‘But I want to do colouring.’

‘I can’t, baby. I can’t.’

As he stood, I played our game. Where I’d latch on to his leg, refusing to let go, and he’d walk around with me clinging to his ankle. I’d laugh until I’d nearly wet myself, and he’d pretend he couldn’t find me. ‘Where’s Connie?’ he’d say. ‘Has anyone seen Connie?’

But he didn’t say it this time. Didn’t play along.

Mum emerged from the kitchen, wiping her brow with a manky tea towel. Mascara smudged beneath her dimmed eyes. ‘Dinner will be ready in half an hour.’

‘Right. Thanks,’ said Dad.

‘Oh, and we’ve run out of Bisto. Could you pick some up while you’re out?’

‘Sure.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘For a walk.’

‘Right . . . Well, dinner will be ready in half an hour.’

He dragged me over to her. I looked up between them. ‘Angie . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry.’ He lifted her chin and kissed her lips.

‘Me too, Patrick . . . I really am.’ She swiped across her eyelids with a twisted corner of the towel. ‘Let go of your dad, Connie.’

‘No,’ I snapped.

A loud sizzling sound filled the room. She took a moment to realize what that meant, then said, ‘Shit,’ and ran into the kitchen.

‘Come on, Connie, get off now. I’ve got to go.’ He looked down. A looming giant.

‘No.’

Bending his knees, he crouched in front of me. ‘Connie . . . I’ve really got to go.’

‘No.’

Then something strange happened. He dropped his head and cried. The same way Mum would. Pushing his fingers through his thick, oily hair as he sobbed.

I didn’t know what to do. I’d never seen him cry before. So I just watched him.

‘Please, sweetheart.’ He looked at me with such a sad expression that I released my tiny arms and let go of his leg.

Once free, he kissed me on the forehead and rose. He wasn’t crying anymore. Said nothing. Didn’t look at me again. Merely picked up his guitar and left.

We ate our roast in silence. Without gravy.

Mum placed her knife and fork down every few minutes and phoned him. Growing angrier each time there was no answer.

Once we’d finished eating, she called other people. Each conversation ending with the words ‘Thanks anyway.’

After feeding his dinner to Alfie, she cleared the table as normal and did the washing-up.