Mr Wetheral pulled over a chair and took out a hand drill. He stood on the chair, held the drill firm to the wall with his strong arm and wound it slowly with the weaker one.

We stood watching him – all five of us.

All five of us? If we were all in here, could I slip back into the kitchen? Take the antibiotics from Dad’s bag? Maybe even get some of those shortbreads.

I took a sideways step towards the door.

“Oh, as you’re here, Mr Wetheral, could you do me a favour?” Dad dodged past me into the kitchen and carried on shouting through the doorway. “Would you take these antibiotics for your mother?”

He came back in with the bottle. The little brown bottle of trellicillin.

I should have been quicker.

“Of course. No problem at all. Put it next to my toolbox so I’ll remember it.”

“Great, thank you. Cup of tea?” Dad put the bottle down, right in front of me.

My fingers itched to pick it up.

“A cup of tea would be lovely,” said Mr Wetheral.

We lifted the painting and eased it over the hooks. Nudged it till it was level.

“Would you like me to leave now? Give you some space?” Mr Wetheral placed his empty teacup carefully into the saucer. We hardly ever used saucers but I saw why Dad got them out. They seemed to suit Mr Wetheral.

“No, no,” said Mum. “Stay. We’d like you stay, wouldn’t we?”

Mr Wetheral looked at Jed. “What about you, Jed? Would you prefer me to stay or go?”

Jed shrugged. “Don’t mind.”

“In that case, I’ll stay.” Mr Wetheral smiled. “Who’s going to remove the cover?”

“Can I do it? Can I?” Trig jumped on the spot.

Dad held the chair good and still and Trig climbed up and pulled out the pins. The cloth dropped away.

I’d seen Mr Wetheral’s pictures before. Clear-as-life, full-body portraits of eldests gone to camp. Eyes that watch you so close you forget it isn’t the real person right there in the room with you. Hands that might reach out any moment and pick a money spider out of your hair. All paid for with firewood or flour or a new right-handed, lovingly knitted fingerless glove.

But it was even more real when it was your own brother. Your own brother who you’d grown up with your whole life.

He was there. It was really Jed. Life-sized. Smiling that half-smile he does, with his eyebrows just a little bit lifted, his lips just a little bit pursed.

The Real Jed.