‘Fairfax was a lost soul without his lad. The house he lived in, that were owned by his father before him so there were never no mortgage to pay and he didn’t need much money in his pocket for the things he liked. Worked here and there, doing a bit of farmhand work or as mate for a mason or a plumber or two. Reliable hand and because he were so good at being friendly to folk he were never short of work. But he was empty inside – anybody who knew him properly knew that. It was me told him to start writing. Late fifties, this was. We were having a drink and nattering and sharing stories and he came out and said that all this stuff should be in a book. Said if Christopher were alive he’d be writing it. Would show the world what this little pocket of the world was really like. I told him he should do it. Do it in his boy’s honour, like. We had a toast to that and I don’t think I thought of it again. Next thing we’re in Haltwhistle to buy some spark plugs for a tractor and he comes out of the stationery shop all pleased with himself. He’d bought this beautiful, leather-bound notebook. Honestly, it were so smooth it were like polished wood. Got himself a fountain pen and umpteen pencils. All the stuff, like. Pleased as punch, he was. Said he was going to do it. Would dedicate it to Christopher. Would write about the history of the village but more about its people. Its character. I hadn’t seen him like that in so long I told him it were a grand idea. Get to it, I said. Start with me, if you like.’

I found myself smiling. I only had one memory of Fairfax and it was of an old man half in and half out of his wellington boots in Felicity’s doorway. I preferred the picture Nixon painted for me. He was grinning. It was nice to think of the moment he had found that smile.

‘I spread the word, like,’ said Nixon, smoothing down his shirt front with his big red hands. ‘Had a few words in a few quiet ears and said that Fairfax wanted to get people’s memories down on paper and not to pull his leg too much about it as it meant a lot to him. We’re not always good at sharing our secrets but people did their bit. Started telling him their stories.’

He stopped for a moment and swallowed. His throat seemed dry. I got him a glass of water and placed it down in front of him. He thanked me with a nod.

‘You’re wondering what would be worth saying, I’ll bet,’ he said, smiling.