Dad wouldn’t have gone this way. He got two tubes to work – ‘to the Shoplifters’, he’d say, with a wink – but maybe he could get a bus to the Heath from there. Swimming. When he came back late, he’d always say that he’d been at the pub or the park, but he’d never mentioned swimming.

He was more of a spectator at sports, generally. Football at the pub or at Barnet, sometimes with Matty, freezing their bums off on the wonky terrace. The odd ‘butterfly’ on the races, as he called it with a little flutter of his fingers. His winning streaks lasted about as long as a butterfly’s lifespan. And he spectated Matty, too. Boxing as well as skateboarding. Matty had been going to the club for six months and Dad was always there, having a quiet word with Freddie, sending a wink and a nod over.

Raised voices at the front, the bus going nowhere. A man with dreadlocks and long, pumpkin-coloured shorts was arguing with the driver about ten pence that he didn’t have. Long, loose words and a wet sound through his teeth. The A–Z was getting sticky on both knees. They had stopped by Jack Straw’s Castle, the big pub. It was near enough. Matty hopped out of the still-open doors.

It was a different world up here. Like going through a magic wardrobe or being spun round to the other side of a secret wall. No shops, just big single houses in neat red brick, and the road signs looked like they had been very carefully painted a hundred years ago. Old-fashioned names – Vale of Health, Squire’s Mount, Well Walk. The smell was different, too, not exhausts and baking bagels but heavy, woody.

Matty had been to the Heath plenty of times, going up with Dad to chuck a ball around. It felt different being here alone. Senses on red alert. Traffic still rumbled past, very close, but there was a layer of birdsong underneath the rocking of cars and vans, drawing you in, as if coming from further back in time.

A wide path led into the park with fat, overlapping trees on either side that turned afternoon into evening. Just birds now. Matty still didn’t press play on the Walkman. The trees were giants, looking down, wondering what this small, scruffy-haired person was doing. Two women with a dog and a pushchair walked past. I won’t have him do that again, you know? one was saying. Gotta have some self-respect, one said, the other nodding.