Coming into the High Street, I saw their bikes propped up against the window of Burgrey Stores. I was careful to pull in a fair distance down the street. I watched the door of the shop. A man with a dog and a paper rushed out; a woman walked in, shaking her open purse and frowning; and a few minutes later, the two boys emerged together. A girl with long blonde hair followed them. I recognised her as the shop’s Saturday girl.

I hadn’t planned to be doing this, I reminded myself.

Then something unexpected happened. Before the boys cycled off, the girl held Robert by the elbow for a long moment and looked into his face. Robert smiled at her, and Luke looked the other way.

I sat for a while, watching the two boys pedal down the road, wondering about what had just happened. The girl stood on the pavement and watched them until they turned the corner. I thought she might shout out after them, but she didn’t, she just stood there, gazing after my son. Then she swung back into the shop, her hair sweeping behind her.

That afternoon, I visited Burgrey Stores.

I hadn’t been using the shop as often as I once did. The supermarket now met all our weekly shopping needs, and I liked strolling along the wide bright aisles, considering which brands offered the best value, surprising myself with the occasional impulse buy.

Burgrey Stores consisted of two narrow aisles, a chiller cabinet and a magazine rack. Packets of hair grips, combs and tights hung in the window. The shelves were heavy with dusty tins – peaches, pies, peas. Magazines and newspapers were piled on the floor as well as on the rack. The sound of a televised football match floated in from the back room.

The girl was leaning on the counter, reading a magazine. The sleeves of her jumper were pushed up past her elbows. The skin on her arms was blotchy; the pattern of vein and skin made me think of pith on an orange. Both her elbows were smeared with a patch of ink. As her arms moved over the pile of newspapers on the counter, I wondered how she managed to scrub off all that ink every evening. Did it turn the sink grey as she stood in the bathroom, up to her elbows in soapy water? Perhaps she didn’t bother washing at all, but just let the ink rub off on her sheets as she turned in her sleep.

I asked her for a packet of cigarettes, pointing to a gold box. It was all I could think of. I’ve never smoked, and I’ve always hated to see women’s mouths, particularly, pulling on the tips of those things, sucking them dry.