He breathed out heavily through his nose, shook his head and gave a little laugh. ‘Go on, then.’

‘Sexy wellingtons, Mr Hall,’ the shop girl called over.

Luke laughed first and Derrick Pearce’s boy followed. His laugh was so loud it drowned out the gobbling turkeys for a moment.

Robert sniggered. Instinctively he covered his mouth with his hand, but then he changed his mind and took it away. His green eyes were clear when he looked at me and let out a loud hoot.

When he’d finished laughing, he said, ‘What did you want to say, Dad?’

‘I just wanted to tell you. I wanted to say… ’ I stopped. I tried to look him in the face, but my eyes kept straying to his hair. It was stuck up on his head; his plumage was straight and strong now, I noticed. He no longer had that cockatoo touch at his crown.

I began again. ‘I wanted to tell you that, that I’m sorry.’ I flexed my hands in my pockets. The ache in them was sharp and deep.

‘I’m sorry.’

Robert blinked; he said nothing.

‘That’s all I came to say.’

Robert looked at me for a long time. Then he nodded, just once.

I walked out of the shed and back into the darkness.

sixteen: Joanna, December, 1985

sixteen

Joanna

December, 1985

‘Lapsang Souchong,’ says Simon. ‘Not, in any circumstances, to be taken with milk. You have to take it black. You’ll understand that, Joanna.’

He lifts the lid off the teapot and wafts the steam with his hand. It smells like a packet of bacon flavour Frazzles.

We’re in Mr Badger’s tearoom again. Simon promises this will be the last tutorial before Christmas. He says we’re making ‘progress’. When he says this he rolls up the sleeves of his diamond-patterned jumper, like he’s going to do some dirty work. Like he’s getting his fists ready for something, or someone.

‘Try a cup?’ He holds the pot over my side of the table and raises his eyebrows. His hair’s a bit off today. The fringe isn’t as sculpted as usual. I can see the grooves where he’s tried to comb the hairspray through.

In the background, classical music is playing at low volume. Violins and cellos chug along together. That sort of music always sounds like it’s straining for something.

‘I’m hungry.’

‘They do good soup here.’ He pours himself a cup of smoke-coloured tea, then gestures to the girl in the frill-on-frill apron. She gives it a minute before unpeeling herself from the kitchen doorway and walking over to our table with her greasy pad, chewing on a plait.

‘This young lady would like something to eat.’ Simon takes a good look at frill-on-frill. She’s got sharp cheekbones, little pig eyes lined with electric blue pencil, thin pink lips.

‘Sausage and chips,’ I say.