Penny’s heart sank. ‘Please Mr Armstrong, could we possibly come inside?’ she asked, a little taken aback by her own bravado. ‘Just for a moment. If you still decide no, once you have heard what we have to say, then I understand.’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘Please.’

Once inside, she and Ned were begrudgingly invited to sit down by their host.

‘Now what is this all about?’ Armstrong asked.

Penny tried smiling in an effort to warm the mood. ‘First off, let me say thank you for having us. I appreciate that. I’m on a hunt of sorts, and it’s been a long road.’ Her voice shook a little. ‘My mother recently passed away and upon sorting through some of her things, I found something out about my dad here that I never knew.’

Deciding that honesty was the best policy, Penny launched into the story about the records, explaining that her dad had a complete collection that he’d sold when she was a baby, telling Joe Armstrong that she had been successful in tracking down several on her list but she was now hitting a dry spell.

‘So that is what brings me here. I was told that you might have a first edition Revolver. And well, if you were willing to part with it – we would be willing to pay well for it and make it worth your while.’ Penny paused. ‘Do you have a copy?’

The man thought for a moment and nodded. ‘I do yes. And it’s mint.’ He looked at Ned. ‘Look, I can appreciate what you did for your family. And I understand your situation. But this album is a collector’s piece and it cost me a small fortune. You wasted your time coming here. I’ve no intention of selling it.’

Penny sighed, feeling defeat seep through her bones. This was a mistake; she should never have come, and certainly should never have brought Ned along with her, getting his hopes up. She was about to thank Joe for his time and leave, when suddenly her father spoke.

‘Revolver was always a great favourite of mine,’ he said softly. ‘Eleanor Rigby is on that album.’ He paused and smiled at Penny. ‘Elle is named after that song, of course.’

Ned looked at the floor and a look of remembrance flooded his face before he laughed softly. ‘Your mother gave in to me on that . . . When your mother was carrying her, I probably played Yellow Submarine to her a thousand times. At least a thousand times . . .’ Ned’s expression softened and she felt herself transfixed by her father’s admissions. He stared at the floor and she knew at that moment, he was thinking of his wife, remembering her, remembering the soundtrack that painted their early life together.

‘A true classic,’ Joe said, piping up and finally speaking, this time with a softer tone in his voice. ‘And I’m . . . uh . . . very sorry about your wife.’