I feel as if the stuffing has been knocked out of me. It’s not as if I’ll miss this place, but it is our childhood home. There’s a small framed photo on top of one of the towers of boxes. I pick it up. It’s of Ruby-May, grinning widely, tiny baby teeth, big blue eyes, that tumbleweed of hair haloed round her face.

‘Lovely, isn’t it? I couldn’t bear to pack it away just yet. Chloe gave it to me.’

I set the photo down. I still can’t bring myself to look too closely at pictures of my niece.

‘She comes here quite a lot, you know,’ Dad continues.

‘Who?’

‘Chloe. On the train and then the bus. A long journey for her. But it’s nice to see a young face.’

‘Really? Why? Sorry, that sounds rude. I mean, I know you’re her grandfather, sort of.’

‘Yes, Nick, I am. I am her grandfather. She’s been part of our family since she was four years old. She wants to be a journalist. She comes here to talk to me about politics, ask my advice about writing articles, which university she should go to, that kind of thing. Not that I can help her much. It’s all changed since my day, hasn’t it? Vloggers and podcasts. You could help her, though: give her a masterclass in photography.’

‘I’m hardly a master. I spend my day carrying kit and making the coffee,’ I say. ‘I’m lucky if I ever get to touch the camera. Should have gone to university, like you always told me to.’

I guess Matt must have put Chloe off a career in TV, I think. I look at my watch. The pub will be open now, although it’s too early for food.

‘You’ve done well, Son. I’m proud of you.’

I don’t know how to deal with a compliment from my dad, so I ignore it.

‘Shall we take a turn round the garden? For old times’ sake. If you’re selling it, I might not see it again. And then we can head over to the Railway Inn.’

‘Of course, of course.’

It seems to take an age for my father to lace up his boots, wrap himself in a scarf and a hat, zip up his fleece, try and wiggle all his digits into the correct fingers in his gloves. I fidget and restrain myself from helping him or telling him to hurry up. We walk slowly round the edge of the house. The patio is treacherous: slick with algae, moss growing through the cracks in the paving slabs, and the hedge has encroached so that the glossy laurel leaves nearly touch the walls of the house. It’s dusk and it takes a while for my eyes to acclimatize.

‘Oh!’ I stop abruptly.

‘Ah, yes. Did I not tell you?’