‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said, teeth clamped and cheeks burning.

‘That ain’t what I’m here for,’ said Nixon, patting the air. ‘Owt you may have said don’t matter none anyways. When you lost your little lad – that wiped the slate.’

I glared at him. ‘That’s all it took, was it? If I’d known I’d have let him die months earlier.’

‘Don’t be like that. Look, just listen, yes? I wanted you to know about Fairfax. About his writing.’

I folded my arms, stewing like strong coffee. I wanted to kick him out. To tell him to get back down the lane to his inbred neighbours and friends. And yet I needed to hear him out. I gave the slightest of nods. He breathed out, relieved.

‘Fairfax’s son, Christopher. He died right at the tail end of the war. It half broke Fairfax though he never let it show. Saved his tears for when he’d had a few drinks and even then he resented every single tear that he let spill. Saw each one as a failure. Missed his boy like you would miss a limb, love. It was me got him into writing. We used to talk about how his son would have become this incredible writer. Like a Hemingway – a soldier turned storyteller. He would have been great at that. His death was needless. A tragedy, right at the end of the war. He had no business dying. Life had such big plans for him.’

I softened my gaze. Told him to carry on.