A quarter of a century had passed since Hollinbrook Pit had closed, but Harry wasn’t the sole relic of those arduous days. He still lived at No. 8, Atkinson Row, the only line of dwellings that hadn’t been bulldozed in the late 1990s, when they’d finally started developing the vast brownfield site. This was partly because Atkinson Row had never looked out of place in the proposed new townscape. Its houses were more than serviceable, a terraced row of traditional two-up-two-downs, but with solid roofs, secure foundations and no hint of subsidence. These days they were downright attractive, their brickwork repointed and whitewashed, new pipes and gutters fitted, each with its own little garden at the back instead of a tiny yard and outdoor privy. They were still referred to locally as the ‘Pit Cottages’, even though Harry was the only ex-pitman living there. He had lived alone for the last nine years, since Ada had passed, but his property was the smartest of the lot, with a box of flowers under the front window, and his front door painted canary-yellow.

It was just after ten o’clock when Harry closed this handsome door behind him, the lock catching. Milly, his small Pekingese, waited patiently. She was thirteen now, tubby, grey at the jowls and bandy-legged. But she was an affectionate little soul who liked nothing better than an idle wander with her master. Harry buttoned up his overcoat, tugged his trilby down at the front and drew on his fingerless gloves. It was September, and the searing heat of August had noticeably diminished. Nights were cool, and there was an edge to the breeze.

They set off up the road together, Milly snuffling at the base of every streetlight, lapping at the occasional puddle left over from the afternoon rain, despite Harry’s gruff admonitions. They turned right at the top of the road, following their usual route.

Though it wasn’t terribly late, it was midweek, so each street they came to was bare of life: Candlemaker Avenue, Rotherwood Drive, Hornby Crescent, Billington Grove. They even sounded suburban, and they certainly looked the part: more of those manicured front gardens, rockeries, shrubbery. It was a far cry from the narrow terraced streets of Harry’s day. But in general, he had to concede that things tended to change for the better. It was too easy to get dewy-eyed about the past, especially if you hadn’t been part of it.

Most windows were now curtained, only soft lamplight filtering through, though now and then he passed an open bedroom window, and heard music playing or what sounded like a TV programme. That was something that had not changed for the better, in Harry’s opinion: kids having all that kit in their bedrooms when they should be out, running around. Not that he would really have expected that at this late hour, of course.

And not when there was that other thing supposedly keeping them indoors.