‘Jackson Rose,’ I said, and it wasn’t a question, because there was no doubt in my mind, and I saw the shock of recognition dawn on that familiar face.

‘Max?’

How long had it been? Thirteen years. Another last day of term in what was for us the last school year of them all. But for the five years before that, we had been closer than brothers.

One of those childhood friendships that you never find again.

I held out my hand and helped him to his feet and he grinned and I saw the gap-toothed smile I remembered, although one of his front teeth was chipped now, and we hugged, both laughing at the improbability of it all. Then we stood apart, shaking our heads. Time overwhelmed us.

I looked at his filthy army fatigues.

He looked at my daughter. And our dog.

And then we laughed again.

‘You’re a father?’ he said.

I nodded. ‘Yes.’

That gap-toothed grin. ‘Congratulations.’

‘Thanks.’

He held out his hand to Scout and she solemnly shook it.

‘Jackson Rose,’ he said.

‘Scout Wolfe,’ she said, and she watched him as he crouched down to make a fuss of Stan. ‘Are you my daddy’s friend?’

‘That’s right, Scout. And do you know what they say?’

Scout shook her head.

‘I don’t know what they say,’ she confessed.

‘You can make new friends,’ Jackson Rose said, looking at me. ‘But you can’t make old friends.’ He gave me that gap-toothed grin. ‘Isn’t that right, Max?’

‘You’re coming home with us,’ I said.

Something passed across his face.

‘I can’t come home with you and Scout,’ he said, looking away, and I saw that he was ashamed.

‘Why not?’

He hesitated for a moment then gave a short, embarrassed laugh.

‘Because I really need a shower,’ he said.

‘We’ve got a shower,’ I said.

Then I looked at Scout, wondering if she would be worried by the presence of a stranger under our roof. But she reached out and took Jackson’s hand.

‘My friend’s called Mia,’ she told him.

We took him home.

My plan was to order a Thai takeaway, or pizza, or whatever he wanted, but as soon as I mentioned food he was at the fridge door, looking at what we had.

‘I was a cook in the army,’ he said. ‘You like curry, Scout? Everybody likes curry, right?’

Scout looked doubtful. She had never tried curry.

‘This is a special curry,’ Jackson said, pulling out onions, carrots, chicken. Mrs Murphy, our housekeeper, kept stuff in there. I was more of a scrambled omelette man. ‘A Japanese curry,’ Jackson said, and I saw the boy he had been, and how nothing could stop him once he had decided on a course of action. ‘Not too spicy,’ he said, with a reassuring wink to Scout. ‘Don’t worry about a thing.’