Chiharu listened and nodded, her face appropriately grave as Koji warmed to his theme. He shot June blameful looks, as though he looked on her as the architect of the war. Cramming the last pastry in his mouth, he kept talking about the war and the West and America.

‘He says the Americans who were held by the Japanese as prisoners of war complained about their mistreatment, about being given – how do you say it? – inedible roots to eat. But he says the Japanese were eating roots as well. He says, “To us this is food, they didn’t understand, just because in America they eat McDonald’s every day.”’

They let him talk and talk, because what could they say? Chiharu knew the right way to listen, which was to assume an expression of perfect docility.

As Chiharu was leaving, June asked in a low voice, ‘Do you think he’s alright? I mean, how old do you think he is?’

‘He’s fine,’ said Chiharu, pulling on her coat. ‘Look at him. My aunt, she’s a nurse, she works in Fukuoka. She says people that age are indestructible. They managed to survive the war. It’s like nothing can kill them now. They keep hanging on. But wait, I almost forgot to tell you about the job. It’s at a nightclub called the Hit Parade, they’re looking for someone to clear glasses. I’ve written down the details.’

‘Alright, I’ll check it out,’ June said gamely, although she’d never been in a nightclub in her life.

As she saw Chiharu off, Uncle Koji retired, closing the doors to the TV room. June saw that he’d left his cellphone by the plate of pastry crumbs. Picking it up, she shut herself in the toilet, checked the time and dialled home. As it rang, she pictured the phone ringing in the hall of the small cottage.

‘Hello,’ her sister said.

June had been ready to hang up if it was either of her parents. ‘Hey, it’s me.’

She heard a sharp inhalation. Then, ‘Where are you?’

Naomi was sixteen and a half, two years younger than June, with a babyish quality that made her seem even younger. She still read books about horses, and girls who solved mysteries. And she had other harmless passions, which didn’t worry their parents so much as leave them bemused. She idolised the actor River Phoenix, putting his pictures on her wall. She lay looking up at him from the rug between the beds in their shared room, careless of making June tread awkwardly around her. She had My Own Private Idaho, one of his films, on VHS, and she watched and rewatched the tape until the stupid thing got stuck.

‘June, they are flipping out! How could you do this?’

‘Naomi, listen —’