‘Where . . . the Pals died?’

‘That’s right. He was always talking about them, I do know that.’

‘Sir?’

The man looked up.

‘Yes?’

‘My name’s John Maxwell. What’s yours?’

‘Atterbury. Ronald Atterbury.’

He extended a hand. They shook hands, solemnly.

‘Are you Arthur Maxwell’s grandson? He used to work for me at the boot factory.’

‘Yes. Sir?’

‘Yes?’

Johnny knew what the answer was going to be. He could feel it looming ahead of him. But you had to ask the question, so that the answer could exist. He took a deep breath.

‘Are you related to Sergeant Atterbury? He was one of the Pals.’

‘He was my father.’

‘Oh.’

‘I never saw him. He married my mother before he went off to the war. There was a lot of that sort of thing. There always is. Excuse me, young man, but shouldn’t you be in school?’

‘No,’ said Johnny.

‘Really?’

‘I should be here. I’m absolutely sure about that,’ said Johnny. ‘But I’d better be getting to school, anyway. Thanks for talking to me.’

‘I hope you haven’t missed any important lessons.’

‘History.’

‘That’s very important.’

‘Can I ask you one more question?’

‘Yes?’

‘Tommy Atkins’s medals. Were they for anything special?’

‘They were campaign medals. Soldiers got them, really, for just staying alive. And for being there. He went all the way through the war, you know. Right to the end. Didn’t even get wounded.’

Johnny walked back down the drive barely noticing the world around him. Something important had happened, and he alone of all the living had seen it, and it was right.

Getting medals for being there was right, too. Sometimes being there was all you could do.

He looked back when he reached the road. Mr Atterbury was still sitting on the bench with the two boxes beside him, staring at the trees as if he’d never seen them before. Just staring, as if he could see right through them, all the way to France.

Johnny hesitated, and then started back.

‘No,’ said Mr Vicenti, right behind him.

He’d been waiting by the bus shelter. Haunting it, almost.

‘I was only going to—’

‘Yes, you were,’ said Mr Vicenti. ‘And what would you say? That you’d seen them? What good would that do? Perhaps he’s seeing them too, inside his head.’

‘Well—’

‘It wouldn’t work.’

‘But if I—’

‘If you did something like that a few hundred years ago you’d probably be hung for witchcraft. Last century they’d lock you up. I don’t know what they’d do now.’

Johnny relaxed a little. The urge to run back up the driveway had faded.

‘Put me on television, I expect,’ he said, walking along the road.

‘Well, we don’t want that,’ said Mr Vicenti. He walked too, although his feet didn’t always meet the ground.

‘It’s just that if I could make people see that—’

‘Maybe,’ said Mr Vicenti. ‘But making people see anything is a long, hard job – excuse me . . .’