Matty knew some Italian, from the holidays there – as well as from Mamma, who would slip into it as if she was an alien who kept forgetting her disguise. Sono di Londra. Buonanotte, dormi bene. Cioccolato all’arancia, per favore. They went most summers, Matty turning red then brown, Nonna tutting and barking in her sandpaper voice at the peeling skin. Nonno walked with a rocking limp on one side and sweets secreted in a palm. His pockets must be full of sugar.

Mamma always complained about London. How Italy was better, hotter, less rough, good values, no Indians, no West Indians. But after a day or two, you could see that she wanted to go back home. ‘My mother,’ she would say in a dagger-voice to Dad. He was the other way round, itchy and quiet for the first couple of days, and then practically Italian himself, leaning back on the plastic lounge chair in the garden, drinking limoncello and crooning songs at Nonna until she flicked a tea towel at him.

Now, out in the hallway, talking to Nonna, Mamma sounded like she always did. Like she wanted very much to be there, and she wanted very much not to. ‘Joe,’ Matty heard. ‘Joe. Non lo so. Che cosa ho fatto?’

***

The next day Matty walked, with a rucksack. It wasn’t that far. Up the hill towards the posh houses, until the birds started singing. The sun and the trees’ shadows made jigsaw pieces on the path and the top of the Heath was full of people again. The bench where the tramp had been lying was empty, and there was a dull gold sign: In Loving Memory of Our Mother Mildred Himoff Lewis 1912–1985.

If Dad had just gone away, he would have left a note. He would have stuck it on the fridge, or under Matty’s pillow if it was a secret mission. Some sort of dead drop. He wouldn’t have gone without saying anything. ‘You’ve got my back, haven’t you?’ he’d say sometimes, pointing a finger that was mustard-coloured from nicotine. ‘And I’ve got yours. The Ronans. Family true and true. This version, anyway.’ He’d mean ‘through and through’, but would exaggerate the accent. Both words worked. Matty would nod and imagine the two of them thinly slicing their palms open, and shaking hands to mix the blood together.

Nearing the highest part of the Heath, Matty looked up at the sun, and the day blotted, a split-second of blackness before the sky was nothing but bright blue again.