To the soundtrack of Elvis crooning about another baby boy in the ghetto, we each read our correspondence. In accordance with Aunty Kaye’s will, her estate had been wound up and I was being contacted as a benefactor. She’d donated her house to charity, but the balance was to be held in trust for when I turned eighteen. It seemed that she’d had investments all over the place, leaving me the sum of £192,000 after tax. They’d written the amount in bold, in both words and numbers, as if they’d expected the reader to think, How much?! and then, having immediately had it confirmed, feel free to punch the air and whoop. I did neither of those things. I felt nothing.

Keen not to appear an ungrateful little shit, I began the slow nod and off-centre smile – the look reserved for unwanted birthday gifts. Gramps wasn’t paying attention to me, though, still reading his own letter. He frowned as he did so, shrugging his shoulders when he reached the end.

‘Mind your own business,’ he muttered, refolding it and tucking it on the mantelpiece. He shook away his grim expression, the jubilant grin returning. ‘How about that then?’

‘It’s really kind of her,’ I said to the floor.

‘It’s more than kind,’ he said, rubbing my shoulder. ‘It’s the making of you. You’re a lucky boy. If I’d had that at eighteen, bloody hell, how different the story would have been.’ He handed me my glass. ‘What shall we toast?’

‘Just cheers?’

‘The future.’ He looked hard into my eyes as he said it. ‘To new beginnings!’

Our glasses met and I snorted as the bubbles fizzed up my nose.

It was as Gramps returned to the kitchen to attend to the chilli that I retrieved Miss Morgan’s note.

Dear Mr Morcombe,

May I firstly say how sorry I am for your loss. It has long been clear to me what a fine influence and role model Oliver’s Aunty Kaye was to him, and it was such a pleasure to meet her in person at our showcase. I would not presume to interfere, but I have recently become concerned about some of Oliver’s behaviour. He is often withdrawn and uncharacteristically nervous. Furthermore, he seems to have lost both interest and ability in his piano playing, something that was once a great love of his. It seems probable to me that he could be suffering from some form of post-traumatic stress. He has been through the most dreadful ordeal! It is not for me to say if someone is suffering from a mental-health problem, but I would urge you to consider taking Oliver to see a doctor. Just as you would if he were to break a leg, the sooner treatment is sought, the sooner a recovery is made.

I heard the oven door slam so I skimmed through the rest.