‘No. But I remember that his great-grandfather was buried in the Bayeux War Cemetery. Michael played the last post there on his harmonica. Astrid was getting her braces off when she got back from France. I heard her telling him one day.’

Fionn Sykes seemed to take notice of people in a way that others, including Bee, didn’t.

‘Lola and Manoshi are just down the corridor, of course,’ Bish said.

‘Yes, their mothers have popped their heads in once or twice. And I worked out that if I was here, anyone sitting close to where I was would be too. I’m not sure they’re being honest about how badly those two are hurt.’

‘Well . . . Manoshi lost a hand, and her left eardrum has been severely damaged. Lola’s lost an eye and has a broken arm.’

‘I did know that much,’ Fionn said. Then, ‘Lola and Manoshi were like those two guys in The Muppets. A running commentary on everything.’ He looked a little guilty. ‘Everyone thought they were pretty annoying.’

Was that how Bee felt? Guilty that people she didn’t like or who annoyed her had ended up with such horrific injuries?

The phone buzzed on the bedside table. The boy reached for it awkwardly and put it down again.

‘It’s the newest iPhone,’ he said. ‘An anonymous donation with a 200-quid credit so I get to speak to my mum whenever I want.’

‘Have you seen her?’

Fionn shook his head.

‘Will she be arriving soon?’

‘We’re from Newcastle way.’ He grimaced. ‘We can’t afford this. Private rooms and all.’

‘I don’t think you have to worry about hospital fees for the time being, Fionn.’

‘And if my mum was to come, she’d have to find a place to stay near the hospital and that costs money too, and she doesn’t speak a word of French. She’s never travelled outside our village.’

Bee had never had to worry about where the next fiver was coming from. As a barrister, Rachel earned more than Bish and they’d lived comfortably.

‘She doesn’t drive,’ Fionn mumbled.

Bish regretted mentioning his mother. The boy was forced to make excuses and it was none of his business. ‘What do you hope to do with yourself after next year?’ he asked to change the subject, although he’d hated that question more than any other at Fionn’s age.

‘It’s between reading history or theology at Cambridge. I’m going for a scholarship.’

‘Theology?’

The boy seemed amused by Bish’s reaction. ‘I get all the criticism about religion, you know, Mr Ortley. But the thing is, you can’t take it away from people and not leave something else of substance. That’s what your generation will be remembered for. Taking so much away and replacing it with so little of worth.’

Seventeen going on seventy.

‘I don’t want to hit you when you’re down, Fionn,’ Bish said, ‘but I think your generation is going to be known for being the least useful at anything except ticking likes on Facebook.’