Now though, it was country music. Dad would joke about the singer’s name. Matty Mattofferson. He sounded really old in the songs, but although there was grey in his beard, he didn’t look that old on the cover. In fact, he looked like an angel, in his white unbuttoned shirt, playing his guitar. Or maybe like Jesus. Nice crinkly eyes. His songs were about women leaving him and drinking whisky and robbers and devils.

Mamma was back from work. A collection of sighs and things being taken off. A clunk on the kitchen top. Matty waited to hear the tap turn on. Instead, the fridge opened. The tiny pop of a cork.

The singer’s voice was jaded, wrinkly sounding. Matty tried to imagine having a beard like his.

Mamma came into the lounge, glass in hand. White wine today, with condensation on the glass. She looked angry with the heat, even though she was Italian and always complained about England’s rain. For a moment she stood there, her glass turned inwards towards her as Matty kept lifting the tins. Then she walked over to the tape player, and turned it off.

‘I was listening,’ said Matty.

‘I do not want to listen to it.’

She liked Kris Kristofferson. That was one thing they’d agreed on. Joe Joseofferson, crooning away to Rosa Rosofferson about sunshine and rain.

Now, Mamma was still standing in the middle of the room, as if pretending to be on a set and waiting for a photographer to tell her where to move.

They did argue a lot. In public, they’d get quieter, not louder, little stabbing sentences while smiling on the outside, until they got home and could yell at each other. Mamma’s voice always won, and then she wouldn’t talk to him for a day or two. Matty would hide in games and books, put headphones on, and wait for it to be over. Usually, on those days or nights, only one of them would be in the kitchen later, banging plates if it was Mamma, or burning something in the pan if it was Dad.

‘Why are you doing that?’ She was staring at the tins.

‘Exercise.’

‘Don’t be silly. What are you wearing?’

‘Nothing.’ It was one of Dad’s T-shirts, far too big. The one with the sun and the palm tree on it saying California, not that he’d ever been there.

‘Take it off.’

‘No.’

She came over so quickly that it was almost frightening, and grabbed onto the T-shirt collar. Cold fingers from the wine. ‘Take it off.’

Up, away from her hand. Matty dropped the tins and pushed past her to the bedroom. Slammed the door.

***

‘Did I ever tell you how we got together?’ Dad said, years ago, when he played this tape, as Mamma vigorously dusted the shelves.

‘Yes,’ said Matty. ‘Three million times.’