‘Mama would have been on the first bus to Wrexham to buy a new hat, and you know it,’ Anwen said, and turned back into the kitchen. ‘She loved a party, and she loved us kids enough to want us to be happy, no matter what.’ She heard him wheeze as he pulled himself up from the chair. ‘And besides, Mama liked Eric.’

‘Suppose you’ll be going… to this charade then?’ Bryn said, waving his empty mug and the invitation in his left hand, his right grasping the door frame to steady himself as he fought for breath. He still believed it was all the medication that was making him breathless; nothing to do with the forty-a-day over fifty or more years that had caused the emphysema.

‘We’re all going, Dada… of course,’ she said with a sigh. ‘The boys have asked Medi to be a bridesmaid.’ As soon as she’d spoken she regretted her choice of words; she should have said flower girl or ring bearer, but somehow bridesmaid had just slipped off her tongue.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Bryn fought for air. ‘Which one of them’s the bride then, wearing the bloody dress?’ His fingers, grasping the doorframe, turned white. ‘I always thought that Eric was a bit like a female impersonator. And you’re letting my only granddaughter be exposed to that? It’s… perverted! My little cariad Medi shouldn’t be–’

‘She’s only seven, Dada… and she’s so excited.’ Anwen pointed an accusing, sudsy finger at her father. ‘Don’t you spoil it for her. She loves her uncles, and I won’t have you telling her it’s wrong. Eric’s a lovely lad and he makes Dylan happy; that’s what’s important. The world has moved on you know.’

‘Moved on? It’s gone off the rails.’ He slid the empty mug onto the draining board and shuffled back to the chair by the fire, mumbling curses.

Eric stood in his Harrods-monogrammed dressing gown and turned the wooden spoon quickly in a pan of simmering water, à la one of those over-rated, over-paid TV chefs, before pouring the cracked egg gently from a cup into the vortex; his hips swayed gently, seductively, with the stirring. Because it was Saturday, Dylan fussed with the coffee; always Illy… three flat scoops… four cups of water… always drunk with hot milk and brown sugar – Muscovado, not Demerara. The Today programme on Radio 4 was churning out more bad news about the crunch of capitalism, but between the coffee and Eric’s bum, Dylan wasn’t listening.

‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have sent your dad an invitation,’ Eric said, extracting a perfect poached egg from the pan with a slotted spoon. ‘We already know that he won’t come and the last thing we want to do is upset him.’

‘But it’s not for us to decide for him, Eric; he’s got to make that decision for himself,’ Dylan said, pouring their coffees.