Shelly exchanged an ‘Awww’ look with DJ, then passed two bottles of beer over. ‘Why don’t you two take to the sofa so we can put the table back against the wall and have some room in here. We’ll have the pudding on our knees, OK?’

Both men nodded and the tension broke as they pushed the table back to the wall and then flopped onto the sofa.

‘Ouch, sorry, sat on something,’ DJ said, pulling the scatter cushion out from behind his back, then holding up a huge pair of holey, pale-blue Y-fronts.

Gordon’s eyes widened. ‘’Ere, I’ve been looking for them. They’s me most comfy ones. Shelly, you ’aven’t been using them as a duster?’

DJ’s shoulders were shaking.

‘For goodness’ sake, Dad. There’s no backside in them,’ Shelly cried.

‘I admits they’s a bit thin in the seat, but the front’s still good, and who’s ever goin’ to see my behind?’

Laughter exploded from DJ. ‘You crack me up, Gramps!’ he cried between gasps.

‘You leave my crack out of this!’ Gordon said, which made Shelly laugh helplessly too. In a few silly words, all the strain between them was blown away. Shelly took a surreptitious glance at her father and wondered if he had somehow orchestrated the whole fiasco just to break the tension.

*

The pudding was a great success with everyone having seconds. They talked for a while, Gordon telling DJ about his pigeons, then explaining about the steam engine he’d kept for him for the past twenty years.

Shelly smiled to herself, delighted to hear the ease with which they made arrangements for the following week. DJ, her son, fitted into the family, and wasn’t that wonderful? More than she had hoped for.

‘Come up to the loft, lad, have a look at me birds while Shelly gets on with the dishes, then we’ll bring Gran Gertie’s bag down and see what’s in there, right?’

Shelly continued to clear up, smiling when she thought about her father apologising to DJ the way he did. Clearly, he’d been dreading the day he’d face his grandson. Half an hour passed and Shelly was finishing her coffee when the men returned from the attic with Gran Gertie’s pillow-bag.

‘Here, Gramps, shall we put it on the table?’

‘Sounds like a plan, lad.’

They hefted the bulging pillow-bag onto the empty dining table. ‘Right, here we go,’ DJ said. ‘Who’s going to do the honours? I think it should be you, Mum. What do you think, Gramps?’ He looked at them both, his head slightly to one side. ‘It feels a little odd saying Mum and Gramps, you know?’