What if he had moved, and not given John his new address? Never got John’s cards, but sent his anyway? Gipsy Road. John counted out the numbers, odd one side, even the other. He could see the house now, like all the others, bay window and green paintwork, a privet hedge that needed cutting, a garden gate swinging on its hinges. The path was crazy-paved and moss grew in the cracks. Somehow, he’d imagined Arthur would be more house-proud. There was a small lawn in the front garden, but the grass was long. Perhaps they were away. He knocked anyway.

A dog barked inside and a woman’s voice could be heard. A door shut. The barking became muffled. Footsteps, then the front door opened. The woman had a crease in the centre of her forehead that made her look cross, worried. She wore an apron and was wiping her hands dry on it. The door behind her creaked. She turned.

‘Don’t let the dog out,’ she said. A black and white terrier rushed towards him, stumpy tail wagging. The woman grabbed his collar, turned to a young girl behind her.

‘Take him back in the kitchen.’

‘But who is it?’

‘Do as you’re told,’ the woman said. ‘Go inside. With the dog.’ It was a harsh voice and John remembered that she was an infant teacher, used to scolding and playground duty.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘How can I help?’

‘No need to apologise.’ John smiled, hoping to reassure her. ‘I’m looking for Arthur Gambol. Does he still live here?’

‘Who’s enquiring?’

The kitchen door opened a crack. John liked that little girl, not afraid to disobey. He saw the dog trying to push his way out and wanted to smile. He liked the dog, too.

‘My name’s John Harris,’ he said. ‘I was in Germany with Arthur, at the end of the war.’

She leaned her head back, squinted at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He talked about you.’ Her voice was flat, disapproving even. She wasn’t going to give anything away.

He wondered what Arthur had said, sensed that his visit could be a waste of time. He should leave now, before Arthur saw him.

‘Come in,’ she said. ‘He’s in the garden.’

The kitchen door was opened and the dog bounded out, jumping up at John.

‘Whisky, down.’

‘It’s all right,’ John said. ‘I like dogs. Here, boy.’

‘He’s called Whisky,’ the girl said. ‘Because he’s black and white.’

‘Black and white?’ John said, before he recognised the connection. ‘Very good.’

‘It was Daddy’s idea,’ she said. John laughed. Yes, it would be.

‘Go and tell your father there’s a man to see him,’ Arthur’s wife said, adding, ‘An old friend.’

She smiled then. She could be gracious. ‘Come on through.’