Margaret took the kettle into the little scullery in the back corner, where there was a tap and a stone basin. As the water trickled into the kettle she heard Charles come into the other room.

‘Well, why didn’t you tell me if you wanted to come, boy?’ Margaret heard Elsie Barber say irritably. ‘Years pass and not a word – and you turn up like this.’

‘I’m very sorry, Grandma.’ Charles’s voice had taken on its appeasing tone. ‘It was something I thought of on the spur of the moment, to be truthful with you. Margaret and I were travelling south – to see my new church at Banbury. And I thought – why not? I so wanted the two of you to meet each other.’

‘Why?’ Elsie said, with undisguised scepticism.

Charles laughed. ‘Because you’re my grandmother, of course, why else! I have very fond memories of you.’

‘Huh,’ Margaret heard, returning with the kettle. Elsie Barber pointed her to the range and she positioned it on the heat.

Charles, perched on one of the upright chairs, was saying earnestly, ‘I know I’ve been very poor at keeping in touch with family. It’s part of the nature of the ministry – it’s so demanding that one can feel quite devoured – and the family was not very near. But soon, when I am at Banbury, I shall be able to visit you more often.’

Margaret turned from the range to see Elsie Barber give a nod of what could only be called lukewarm enthusiasm at this prospect. She sank into the easy chair by the fire as if her legs would no longer hold her. Margaret saw that her ankles were very swollen, her feet pushed into loose tweed slippers. The wooden-cased clock on the mantel struck a mellow four times as she did so. Already, the light outside was fading.

‘There’re a few biscuits – in that tin.’ She pointed Margaret to a pale yellow tin on the table, which said ‘Peek Frean & Co.’ on the lid. ‘If I’d known you were coming . . .’ She didn’t elaborate on what she might have done had she been in possession of this foresight. ‘Sit down, girl.’

Margaret took the other seat by the little table and Charles looked across and gave her a strange, confiding smile, which she returned, momentarily touched. I know this place is not much, his smile seemed to say, but this is my family and I want to share myself with you. And his grandmother’s house humbled him in her eyes. It was a lowly place.

She looked around the room while they waited for the kettle. It was very simple – the bed, the range and chairs, the dingy, butter-coloured paint on the walls. There were no pictures or memoirs of family that she could see. She wondered if these were in the parlour at the front.

‘So – how’s your ma?’ Elsie asked.