‘I’m good,’ I say. ‘Not sleeping too well, which is why I, you know . . . why it’s so late.’

‘Only Sophie called us yesterday and she sounded a bit worried.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Some conversation you’d had with her. I don’t know.’

All those knives and coffins and things. ‘Oh, she’s just being daft,’ I say.

‘Are you sure?’

‘How’s Grandma?’

My mum clears her throat. She’s probably plumping up the pillow behind her. ‘Well, I called her the day before yesterday and she’s . . . much the same. She asked how you were doing.’

I doubt that. Last time I saw my grandmother, she hadn’t got the foggiest who I was. Probably best, I reckon.

‘What did you tell her?’

‘I don’t remember,’ Mum says. ‘I think I just said something . . . vague.’

‘Well, next time she asks . . .’ she won’t, ‘. . . tell her I’ve been promoted to sergeant, will you? That’ll perk her up. Or you could always just rattle out the appendix story, like you did with Jeff and Diane.’

‘Yes, sorry, love . . . that just came out.’

‘Unlike my appendix.’

‘We didn’t know what else to say.’

‘I’m kidding, Mum . . . it’s fine. Just hope they never ask to see the scar.’

My mum laughs. It’s a bit nervous, but still, it’s not something I’ve heard for a while. ‘We were thinking we might come down again and see you one day next week. Well, I was.’

What am I supposed to say? ‘You don’t have to.’

‘I want to.’

‘It’s fine, honest. I know it’s no fun for you.’

‘I’m not coming because it’s fun,’ she says. ‘I’m coming because that’s where . . . you are.’

I don’t say anything, because I can’t, and I know that Dad is looking at her again, wanting to know what’s going on. What I’m talking about. My mum’s probably shaking her head at him again or, if she’s in the mood, mouthing shut up, Brian . . .

‘Is there any particular day that’s best for you?’

‘Not really,’ I say.

‘What about a time, then? Dad says that when he came in on Wednesday you were a bit . . . I don’t know.’

‘Yeah, I wasn’t at my sharpest. Look, it doesn’t make any difference what time you come.’ I’m being honest about that much, at least.

‘Oh, that’s good,’ she says. ‘Well, I’ll call beforehand, anyway. See if there’s anything particular you want me to bring . . .’

We talk for quite a while after that, twenty minutes, maybe. About if the biscuits my dad brought in last time were the right ones, and the problems he’s having with his back, and the day when Jeff and Diane’s grandchildren came round for tea.

‘I made a Victoria sponge,’ she says.