But that Saturday I had to buy some new trousers for the dance. I knew that none of the trousers I usually wore would be acceptable. They were not what young men wore. They were the sort of trousers worn by men in banks, in schools, in offices. I needed something that would show Kathryn I was a worthy dancing partner for a woman in a blue mini-dress.

So I’d have to say something to Mum. I was twenty-eight years old. This was the first time I’d wanted to tell Mum about any girl.

That morning she cooked us bacon, eggs and fried bread, like she always did at the weekend. I cut into my egg and the yolk leaked into the bacon fat.

‘Into Oxford today,’ I said.

Mum folded a rasher onto her fork. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if that market is worth it.’

‘Maybe it isn’t. It’s quite expensive. You could try somewhere else. Somewhere closer.’

‘I can’t buy the meat in Hughes’s, Howard, if that’s what you mean.’

‘But like you say, it is expensive. In Oxford.’

She nodded and continued to eat.

I put down my knife and fork.

‘You’re not making much of a dent on that bacon, Howard.’

‘The thing is,’ I said, ‘the thing is, I’d like to go on my own today.’

She didn’t stop chewing as she stared at me. She swallowed, dabbed the corner of her mouth with her apron and picked up her teacup.

‘I see. Well, you can do as you like. You’re not my little man any more. You’re grown now.’

She blew loudly into her tea. Then sighed. Then blew loudly again.

‘Mum – ’

‘It’s all right, Howard, really.’ There was a little laugh in her voice, and she arranged her mouth in the way she always does for photographs: lips turned slightly up at the corners. ‘You go and do what you have to. Whatever that is. I won’t stop you.’

‘Mum – ’

She put up one hand. ‘I mean it.’

‘It’s just that I’m taking a girl out tonight.’

Slowly, her hand came down and rested on the top of her cup. All her fingers curled around the rim, as if she was afraid that something would fall into her tea. She stared at her hand.

‘She’s a lovely girl, Mum. She works in the library.’

She nodded, keeping her head bowed over the teacup. I noticed that her grey roots were beginning to show.

‘In fact, you know her. It’s Kathryn Welch.’

She took a breath. ‘Howard. You don’t have to tell me. What I mean is, I don’t want to know. Unless – ’ she clenched the tea cup tighter – ‘unless I really have to.’ She looked at me, her grey eyes small and frightened. ‘Do you understand, son?’

On our first date, Kathryn wore a pink outfit. It made her look like a rosebud.

We sat at a table, staring at our drinks. I remember watching a bead of moisture slip down her glass of gin and tonic. Every time she reached forward to pick up her drink I thought I’d be able to touch her hand. It would be easy: I’d just reach out and fold my fingers around hers. And she’d look up and say my name. Oh, Howard.