Paper streamers arc in slow spirals as they plummet from the high decks of the ship to the concrete of the dock. The streamers are in faded, fusty fifties pastels, as if they’ve absorbed sun and dust in a corner-shop window for a very long time. Bags of tight coils are passed from expeditioner to expeditioner like gifts. The coils are missiled strongly into the throng of faces and hands beneath them, are picked up and caught by children and adults and even a blue cattledog tries to get in on the act, its jaws snapping at paper and missing until it’s tangled and twisting and is firmly pulled still by a woman at its collar and there’s laughter and shouting and whistling and waving, cameras and video cameras and a local television crew and then high over it all, the ship’s magisterial horn.

There’s a hush. The ship comes gently from the dock. The streamers tense and softly snap. The ship is away.

I quickly lose the vivid black and camel smartness of my mother in the crowd. The man’s suddenly beside me. I feel tight in the chest. I tell myself to be cool.

‘She’s mine . . . the dog.’

She’s standing on the very edge of the dock, panting and barking and whining at our receding ship. The man extends a still and strong arm to her in farewell.

‘Spani, she’s called. After spanakopita. It’s one of my favourite dishes.’

‘Well I hope you also like frozen vegetables, because I suspect we’ve got a lot of them ahead.’