‘Ah, it was a lifetime ago,’ Ali said, dismissive, evasive. But still, she thought, here he was, with them in the car, with his meticulously curated Best Last Two. She’d remembered the cassette yesterday evening, gone up into the roof space to look for it after he’d plunged her back in time with the Comsat Angels. Two hours later, and somewhat to her astonishment, she’d found it in a cardboard box of sundry items, safe and sound in its plastic case. There was no track list, he hadn’t written one, so Ali had to dig out an old cassette player to remind herself what he’d chosen all those years ago. She’d listened to the songs in the permanent twilight of the loft, feeling melancholy, nostalgic, and entirely lost for a while in Daniel’s musical obsessions of 1979. Then she’d corralled those of the songs she already had, bought the ones she hadn’t, and organised all twenty of them into The Best Last Two on her iPod.

‘This one’s good,’ Stella said.

‘“The Girl With No Name”,’ Ali said. ‘The Byrds. Second to last track on Younger Than Yesterday.’

‘Is it old? Doesn’t sound it.’

‘Good music never gets old.’

‘He did a nice thing,’ Stella said.

‘Who?’

‘That boy. What was his name?’

‘Daniel.’

‘He did a nice thing,’ she said again.

‘Yes,’ Ali said. ‘He did a very nice thing.’

‘Hey,’ Stella said. ‘Remember “California Dreaming”?’

‘Always,’ Ali said. ‘Always and for ever.’ It was their duet on any long journey, their party piece at any family gathering, when Stella was still at primary school and would rather be with Ali than anyone else in the world.

‘You be the girls,’ Stella said. ‘I’ll be the boys.’

They switched off the music and sang their parts lustily, and outside the car evening turned into night and there was no longer anything to be seen in the darkness, until ahead, eventually, the warm, scattered lights of Quorn revealed themselves, winking at them, beckoning them in.

Sheila and Dora were waiting for them, so the door was flung open even before they knocked. The little house was suffused with the cinnamon scent of a lamb tagine, and when Sheila wrapped Ali in her arms, she smelled sweetly exotic, orange blossom and rosewater, a Turkish delight of a hug. Stella hung back, suddenly shy, but Sheila drew her in.

‘Beautiful, beautiful child,’ she said, holding Stella’s face. ‘Look at her, Dora. The image of Alison.’

Dora was square-shaped, sturdy, and her face was creased with smiles.