A couple of Dad’s bridge club mates shuffled over to us, murmuring condolences, and during the small talk Lou tried again, reaching over to gently touch my arm. This time I shrugged her off more forcefully and I felt her hot, hurt feelings seep into the space between us. When I glanced at her sideways, the girl trapped in the corner of my eye was eight, and I was thirteen and sullen as an arse. Time hadn’t made a dent in the grudge that nobody knew about except me.

After the motley crew who’d come to pay their respects to Dad had finished the soggy sandwiches and warm wine and started drifting away, Lou tried for a third time. It was nothing more than a tentative touch on my arm, but by then I was in full sail and the trade winds were at my back.

I can’t remember most of what my sister said to me, interspersed with nods and thank yous as people left, but I think there was talk of headstones and ashes and clearing out Dad’s house. I do remember her putting her hands on my shoulders and giving me a shake, as I leaned back and squinted at her through a pair of belligerent, pissed-up eyes.

‘It’s just you and me now, Danny. We’re all we’ve got. We’re the last of the Mulberrys, and I’m sorry if you don’t like that, but it’s the truth.’

It was a shame I hadn’t listened more closely to whatever had come before that, but the beer I’d been barrelling down my throat for the past few hours finally reached its critical mass at the very same time I thought, Well, maybe the truth is just what the doctor ordered.

With a full tank on board, I was under the influence of the theory that things are Meant To Be, with capitals, and that there are certain moments in life that are never not going to happen. Who was Danny Mulberry to get in the way of the universe? (For a short time afterwards, telling myself that, and referring to myself in the third person like it was some other troublesome relative who’d fucked up so royally, made me feel slightly better.) I should probably mention that at the time I also fancied myself to be relatively sober, which of course was a direct symptom of being entirely the opposite.

‘The last of the Mulberrys.’ I could feel the nasty tone in my voice gathering its forces, reshaping the words into spit and spite. ‘Yeah, well. Whose fucking fault is that, Lou?’

I remember the stunned look on Lou’s face, and the way her hands flew up and waved aimlessly in the air for a few seconds like they didn’t know where to go.

‘What? Whose fault? What do you mean?’ There was genuine confusion in her face as she struggled to understand what was going on. ‘It’s nobody’s fault, Danny. That’s not what I’m saying. I just mean we—’