‘Jack told me he didn’t understand most of it and that didn’t bother him. But it described what the bird in flight looked like and, because Jack knew all about that, he felt that he could trust the poet for having got that much right. And he said the words and the rhythm also made him feel what it was like to be a bird in flight. He decided that the point of a poem was to tell you something you knew, and then to use that to introduce you to something you didn’t know and were pleased to find out about. I thought that was quite impressive.’

So did I. Warmth spread along my spine and filled my throat, and I recognised the feeling as pride. I was proud of Jack, just as I had been when he stood up to talk at Ted’s funeral.

‘Thank you,’ I said to Paul.

He fidgeted a little, as if my gratitude made him slightly uncomfortable. ‘Just doing my job.’

‘And doing it well,’ I persisted. I found myself wanting to chip away at his self-deprecation. I suspected that he was a brilliant teacher, I knew that he was a pretty good trumpeter and I had just found out that he was surprisingly good in bed. The last thought, unexpectedly coming into my mind, made me blush.

Paul took my hand and held on to it. ‘What do you want to do now, Sadie? Would you like to spend the rest of this lost weekend with me?’

I totted up my responsibilities. I had to keep in touch with Jack and I had to let Lola know where I was. That was all. ‘Yes, please,’ I said.

While Paul was in the shower, I took out my mobile and rang Lola.

‘You’re where?’ she demanded, on a rising note of disbelief.

I repeated myself, taking a certain saucy pleasure in surprising her so completely. Safe, predictable, dependable Mum had taken a giant step off the beaten track. Lola had obviously never considered that I would actually do such a thing, even if invited. My role was to be flattered but to decline gracefully. To be suitably maternal, not unsuitably wanton. Ah, but it’s wasted on the young, I thought.

‘God, Mum. You and Mr Rainbird. I can’t believe it. You got large and then stayed the night with Mr Rainbird?’

‘His name’s Paul.’ I stood looking out of the kitchen window at an unfamiliar view.

‘I know that. What was it like, anyway?’ Her voice had changed. There was respect in it and a new note of complicity, and definitely a touch of pique. Stanley, I remembered, was a long way in the past for Lola.

‘Fine,’ I said equably.

‘Fine? My mum goes to bed with one of the teachers from school and all she says is fine, like we’re talking about having supper with Mel or going to the twenty-four-hour Tesco?’