“Not like that,” Jacob said. “My Nan got cancer. I was seven when she … er … went.”

Freya put her hand on his arm.

“You don’t have to tell us any more,” she said. “We get it.”

Jacob smiled.

“Might as well tell you now I’ve started,” he said. “After Nan died, my Gramps found life really hard. He always pretended to be happy, but I knew he was sad. When I was in bed, he used to sit downstairs and get drunk and cry. I spied on him sometimes. But I never hugged him or said anything.”

He rubbed his eyes, and Freya squeezed my hand again. She looked like she might cry too.

“I thought he might get angry,” Jacob went on, and he turned to look at me. “If I saw him crying …”

“I cry,” I told him. “And I don’t care who sees me.”

“Yeah, but my Gramps always told me men don’t cry,” Jacob said. “He was an Army boxer. And then, when I seen him cry, I …”

Jacob stopped and stared into the flames. Neither Freya nor I spoke.

“Then Mum came back,” Jacob said. “We started being a proper family. But Gramps got sadder. One day, he took me down by the old railway and the river. It was his secret place. He said I was all Mum had and I had to grow up.”

Jacob looked into the fire for a long time. I watched his marshmallows melt in the flames.

“Gramps promised to take me camping,” Jacob went on. He was crying properly now. “But it never happened. He just left one day …”

“Oh, Jacob,” Freya said. “Look how upset you are. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s OK,” he said. “The police found Gramps’s body at the river. He was holding a picture of my Nan.”

He sat up and looked at us. “Since then, me and Mum just move around – most times it’s because I get excluded. Sometimes, I go down to the river and talk to Gramps. I’ve built this den …”

“That’s cool,” Freya said.

Jacob nodded.

“Used cardboard and plastic sheets and bits of wood,” he said, almost proud now. “Gramps would love it.”

“Does your mum know?” I asked.

“No one does,” Jacob said. “You have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“You can trust us,” Freya said.

“You have to make a pact,” he told us. “Like blood brothers and that.”

He spat into his palm.

“Go on,” he told us. “Do the same.”

“Euurghhh!” Freya said. “I’m not doing that.”

“Freya …” I said, and I spat into my palm.

She sighed and copied us. As we all shook hands, she pretended to puke.

“Gross,” she told us. “Why can’t you have nice, clean rituals instead of these silly macho ones?”

“We’re connected now,” Jacob told us. “Blood brothers.”

“Ahem,” Freya said.

“OK.” Jacob smiled. “Sisters, too!”

*

We sat up until 2 a.m., talking and telling stories. When at last we got into our sleeping bags, I was still thinking about what Jacob had said. I lay staring into the darkness. What a weird day.