‘There’s junk all over the floor,’ she said. ‘And it’s not even Scout’s junk.’

It was true. Stan had his own junk. A dog of that age is exactly like a toddler. Stan had junk scattered all over our flat – a squeaky duck, a spiky rubber ball, a bear in a Union Jack bib, assorted bits of chewed bone and gnawed rope.

‘And this is really your dog?’ she continued, with the amused contempt that I remembered so well. ‘You’re not looking after it for somebody?’

‘Dogs are great,’ I said.

Stan was back, having escaped from the bedroom when Scout came out with her drawings, and he shot me a furtive glance.

‘Dogs don’t care if you’re rich or poor,’ I said. ‘Dogs don’t care if you’re beautiful or plain, smart or dumb, or what kind of car you drive.’

‘That’s right,’ Anne said. ‘Because dogs are stupid. What’s that strange smell?’

‘Scrambled omelette,’ Scout said, placing a stack of drawings before her mother. ‘Daddy burned the pan.’

‘Scrambled omelette?’ Anne said. ‘There’s no such thing!’

‘No, scrambled omelettes are good,’ Scout said, and I nearly wept at her loyalty to my simple meals. ‘Because you can have what you want in them. Ham. Cheese. And you can eat them with Paul Newman’s barbecue sauce.’

Anne touched her hair and laughed. ‘Darling, there’s omelette and then there’s scrambled eggs. There’s not scrambled omelette.’

Scout was wide-eyed.

‘Lots of great chefs are men,’ she said.

Anne shook her head, smiling. She studied the top drawing. ‘What’s this one?’

‘This one’s from school,’ Scout said. She carefully read the title: ‘My Family’.

Anne inhaled. ‘But there’s only you, Daddy and the dog, darling. Where’s Mummy? And your baby brother? Where’s Oliver?’

The new man. At least she doesn’t call him Uncle Oliver, I thought. At least we are spared that ugly fate.

‘I’ve got more drawings,’ Scout said, before Anne could complain any more, and she went back to her bedroom.

‘Look,’ Anne said to me. ‘If you’re finding it difficult to adjust . . .’

I stared at her. I didn’t know what to say. Adjusting? Is getting on with it the same as adjusting?

A burst of sudden pain throbbed in my lower back.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ she said.

‘Daddy’s not at work today,’ Scout said, her arms full of drawings. ‘He hurt his back.’

‘How long has your back been bad, Max?’

‘I’m fine,’ I said.

‘Are you sleeping?’

‘Like a baby.’

‘What – you wake up wet and screaming in the middle of the night?’

We smiled at each other.

‘I’m going to be the grumpy sheep,’ Scout announced, dumping her drawings on the floor.

‘The grumpy sheep?’ Anne said. ‘What’s that?’