He’d been brought up in a small village in the Midlands, in a small cottage, in a small family. Just him and his younger brother and his mother. There were five, six, seven children in other families in the village, but he always thought his mother made up for the lack of other people. She was a neat, bony woman who looked like a girl from the back, but in her heart, her energy, her vision, she was enormous. His father had vanished when he was a boy, just a month after his brother had been born. If he was dead, no one ever said. He was just gone. His mother didn’t latch on to anyone else, although she could have, he supposed; she was attractive enough, striking some might say, and hard-working, clever. She chose to bring them both up alone; she enjoyed the freedom and managed her financial concerns with minimum fuss, never asking for handouts, never selling them short by limiting their lives. She told them it was all theirs if they wanted it, the world and what it had to offer; if they were brave enough to reach for it.

His mother was perhaps the only truly independent woman he knew; she did not depend on a husband or father for her financial or emotional security. Ahead of her time, she didn’t believe the world started and ended between her parlour and the front gate. She didn’t believe that the poverty you were born into had to brand you all your days. She made a living painting portraits of children from well-to-do families. She was able to see and capture innocence in a rare way. Bravely, she also found room to express the less adorable side of children’s natures; she did not shy away from boisterousness, temper, anguish or arrogance, and the parents were compelled by the honesty of the portraits, could not deny or resist them. Walking away from the portrait would be like walking away from the child itself. When she needed to, she took in washing and mending. She approached those tasks with the same dignity and honesty as she did her painting, although with considerably less pleasure. Scrubbing someone else’s sheets and underwear on a wooden washboard, removing their yellow and brown stains, could not be as satisfying as working on a canvas, loading it with emerald, scarlet and violet. Yet she never complained.

There was always food on the table, boots on their feet, and as a treat, once a year she took them into London, something special. The annual trips were a bigger excitement than Christmas. He remembered all of them with complete precision. The tangle of trains, tubes and buses that got them to their destination. The clouds of smoke and fumes mingled with the treacly wonderfulness of the boiled sweets they were allowed to suck on the journey. Crystal Palace, the Natural History Museum, the theatre to see a play. Caesar and Cleopatra by George Bernard Shaw changed everything for Howard. He loved every moment. They’d queued outside the door for hours. It was a vigil made entertaining by street performers who sang and recited Shakespearean sonnets with more gusto than talent, holding out greasy hats to those who could barely afford to spare coppers but would not refuse. Then, when the doors finally eased open, the queue fell apart and the glorious, eager rough-and-tumble crowds pushed, shoved, shouted and scrambled as they made their way inside. Half-crowns and shillings were slammed down with violent excitement on to the counter of the tiny kiosk, checks were given in exchange and people dashed to their seats.