Because I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I never thought about who Norman’s father might be. I mean, I really and truly never thought about it. Which I think you’ll agree is a pretty impressive feat. On the other hand, it meant that seeing those names lined up neatly in their little columns, no jostling, all polite-like, was a bit of a shock, to be honest.

I was struck by the thought that now, for the first time in his life, I was going to have to face up to the fact that I had to share the credit for the miracle that is Norman. And I have to say, it wasn’t a painless realization. I could feel the knots that had staked their claim in my stomach around the time of Jaxy’s funeral begin to gather themselves in tighter. Because who the hell am I, if not Norman’s entire family?

With unusually perfect timing, I heard the front door open and close softly and, seconds later, there he was. My entire family. Us against the world. Standing in the kitchen doorway with his schoolbag over one shoulder and tie askew over the other. Norman would probably be able to count on one hand the number of times he’d come home from school to find anything other than me and a hastily put-together snack waiting for him in the kitchen. Now he looked from me to Leonard and back again and, just for a second, a shadow of something other than sadness hovered nervously over his face. It’s just me now, Mum, isn’t it? I could sense them both waiting for me to say something and, somewhere deep inside, there was an almost imperceptible shift in my organs.

“Norman, this is Leonard...from work. Leonard, this is my Norman. Leonard’s going to... I told him about the plan and...well, he wants to help you... I mean...us...”

Norman stepped forward and offered his hand shyly to Leonard, who stood up from the table and took it gently in his. A couple of biscuit crumbs quivered on the old guy’s chin, planning their next big move, and I felt an unexpected rush of affection.

“Well, I’m so very pleased to meet you at last, young man.” If he was shocked at the red-raw state of Norman’s long-suffering little paw, he hid it well.

“Hello. I...you... I... I mean...really? You’re going to help us...me...get to the Fringe? Honest? And is...is that your car out the front? Because that’s the coolest car I’ve ever seen, Len... Leonard.” The shadow of the something else threw itself across my son’s face and hung on for dear life as his tongue tried out the unfamiliar name.

I followed them out to the street and watched as Leonard gestured Norman into the driver’s seat of the coolest of all cool cars. He sat there with his hands on the Austin’s steering wheel and a rapt expression on his face as Leonard pointed out the polished wooden paneling and the dials on the dashboard. I watched the top of the old man’s head gently rising and ducking as he spoke, and it felt like the moment you hear the air hostess tell you to fasten your seat belts and stow your tray tables. And you know you’ve missed your last chance to get off the flight.