‘Yes, I understand. She’s part of your history.’ I’m sad he misses the person he used to be, incredibly sad.

‘She is. And part of you and me and Angela, when things were good. And that’s how I like to remember her. The person she became – the ugly person – doesn’t exist for me. Even when I was first blind, when it was just us three, we didn’t need her, did we?’

‘No.’ We were OK then, Dad and Angela and I, when we had the dogs. As good as it could get.

‘She’s not even out there, for me, if you know what I mean. But, for you, if you want to talk about her, you can, with me. I don’t mind.’

‘Thank you, Dad; I’ll bear that in mind.’

I don’t want to talk about her. I never have. But I’m glad Dad and I are talking. Like this. Can we ask each other all the questions we have not dared ask before? Is now the time to do it, as we walk the streets of London? I think of the clock in Liberty and its slogan: No minute gone comes ever back again … These minutes walking together may not come back again. What if they last just for this summer? What if we haven’t said everything we want to say? I want to go further, to ask Dad if he’s sad today, if he’s still scared, but on this sunny, bustling street, something holds me back. Is it because deep down I want to tell him all of my truths – my fears and my memories – but I am afraid to? I don’t know. But I like the feel of his hand on my arm. I like walking with him like this. And after lunch we’re going to the Albert Hall and after that, we still have three places on the list, so you never know what the rest of the summer might hold.

‘Table outside?’

We’ve stopped outside the steakhouse we booked. People are stacked on the pavement, under a huge awning, tucking into the most delicious-looking food.

‘Perfect,’ says Dad.

CHAPTER 20

We arrive at the Albert Hall at four o’clock. The sun is still high in the sky and renders the building a pinky-plum gateau, under skies of the purest blue.

‘Is it still the same?’ asks Dad.