The whole house was a rush of vivid memories. He’d been born here, in these four walls. He’d played in this hall, and, when his brother Artie had come along, it had been Raymond who took him out into the streets and introduced him to the other boys, who looked out for him as he grew up. The house had been so full in those days. As he got older, there were always his father’s ne’er-do-well friends turning up, any time of day and night, with mysterious boxes being buried and then unearthed from the yard out back – all of the things they traded down at the market, with never a question about from where they might have come. Artie and Raymond would be out from sun-up to sundown, back for dinner and bathing in front of the fire, while Mrs Cohen kept a pot on the stove almost every hour of the day.

‘I’ve been meaning to come, Ma. I know it’s been a time, but you’ll have to trust me on that.’

‘It’s been weeks, Ray. Mrs Adelman sought you out when summer was still high. And besides, when was the last time we saw you?’

‘Not since the Christmas after Stanley died,’ chipped in Aunt May, who, at a decade older than Raymond’s mother, had a smoky, music hall voice. ‘December 1933.’

Mrs Cohen wrung her hands on a washcloth. ‘We don’t think no less of you for it. You do what you got to do, you always did, but . . . it’s been a long time, boy. And you know what we’ve been through here, with your father passing and your brother gone.’

Again, Raymond looked up, as if trying to work out if his brother was here, lingering up above, refusing to come down.

‘It isn’t like you think it is, Ma.’

‘What is it like then, Lord de Guise?’ asked Aunt May sarcas-tically, fishing tea leaves out of her own cup.