‘What is it, Nain?’ Will asks softly. Danny’s giving him a cut-it-out gesture, but Will can’t ignore her when she’s distressed, like everyone else can.

‘All those books.’ She’s almost crying now. ‘Shame. Shame.’

‘The library’s going nowhere, Nain.’ He’s not convinced this is true, what with the campaign to save it that’s been running for a year or more.

She shakes her head. ‘With your friends, Wilbo.’

‘Defo lost it now,’ Danny mumbles. ‘Friends!’

‘Calm down now, Nain,’ Will says.

‘Your friend owed her life to that place. She owed her life to it!’

‘Try not to get so upset.’

‘Don’t stress it,’ Danny hisses at Will. ‘She’ll have forgotten all about it in literally thirty seconds’ time.’

‘It all comes down, Wilbo. You’re up there, right up at the top of the Martello tower. With your friend. Watching it all come down.’

Will hugs her head to his chest and strokes her fine hair and waits for this to pass. There are cool discs on his T-shirt from her tears.

‘She needs you. Your friend. So sad!’ She looks up, locking her wild eyes with his. ‘You’re there for her, Wilbo. Thank God you’re there for her.’

She bows her head and Will feels the tension in her melting. ‘It’s OK now, Nain. It’s OK.’

Will’s mum and dad return to the table and it’s clear enough they’ve been waiting in the kitchen for the commotion to pass.

‘Thank you,’ Will’s mum mouths at him, dishing out dessert, which they eat in silence. ‘Back in the room with us now, are you, Mum?’ she eventually asks.

‘I’m not deaf. No need for the raised voice,’ Nain replies.

‘Had one of your little episodes, didn’t you?’

Nain waves the statement away. ‘I’m fine, dear. Fine. Don’t worry about me.’

Will’s mum gives a bemused shake of the head.

‘Present!’ Nain shouts, so loud everyone jumps. ‘Clean forgot about it! All that talk of dear old Beppo, and I still didn’t remember.’ She passes Will a brown paper package. ‘Silly old fart …’

The table is quiet as Will holds the frame up to the evening light. He feels a warmth building in the corner of his eyes. It’s a picture, made of a mosaic of small, irregular pieces of broken glass, all perfectly slotted together. There are the deep hazel eyes, the ginger and white fur, the grey round his muzzle. His eternal scruffiness and lack of good breeding are slightly overplayed.

‘It’s incredible,’ Will says.

His mum strokes at the collage of glass. ‘It really is, Mum. Beautiful.’

‘It’s OK,’ Nain says. ‘I made it ages ago. Did the finishing touches these last few weeks. On the good days.’ She holds out a shaking hand and looks at it with dismay.