He rolled his eyes. He’d started doing that. It drove John up the wall. They came to blows a few times, in later years. John never knew how to win those fights. Never knew whether he was being a better dad by drawing blood or in letting his lad work out his aggression on him. He could fight, could Brian. Had a temper like an alley cat and used to bite and scratch and claw like one too. But they weren’t the right fights, if you get me. He never seemed to care about right or wrong or what were kind and what was mean. I’d tried with him. God knows I’d tried. Told him that unkindness was wrong. That cruelty was wrong. That bullying was wrong. He always wanted me to explain. Why, Mam? Why is it wrong? Why is it good to be generous and friendly and welcoming? Why is that better? Who said, Mam? The animals don’t worry about it. Birds neither. And that’s all we are, aint we? Meat in shoes. Who set the rules …?

‘I hoped we could talk,’ she said, and I noticed how wide her eyes were. Her pupils were like tadpoles; like spilled ink on blue writing paper.

‘We’re having tea soon,’ said Brian. ‘You won’t want any. With the carrots chopped up it looks like sick.’

I were embarrassed. I swear, I don’t know why he had to behave like that. I wanted to run into the kitchen with her and show her James and say, ‘Look, I can make children who are nice and caring and who don’t cause people grief’.

‘We can be quick,’ she said, looking at Brian like he were my dad and she was trying to persuade him to let me play out. She looked desperate, poor thing. It felt like I was seeing her properly at last. How young she was. Younger than me but for all her learning she were half-clueless when it came to people.