I meant to go in and make a cup of tea, let him have a minute to get into it on his own, but I found myself standing by the fence again. The two lads’ thighs were almost touching; Graeme had let his leg roll out to the side, showing the hairless place behind his knee. Their noses shone with sweat. Graeme tapped his stomach in time with the song on the radio, and the other lad moved his lips to the words of the song.

‘Excuse me, lads.’

I’d spoken to Graeme only once before, when he’d looked over the fence and asked what year the MG was. Kathryn always said hello if we saw him in the street, even if he was wearing his motorbike helmet. ‘He can’t hear you,’ I told her. ‘He can see my lips,’ she replied.

Graeme lifted his head and pushed his sunglasses down his nose to look at me.

‘I just wondered if you wouldn’t mind turning it down a bit.’

I thought that maybe he couldn’t see me properly because of the sun, but then he reached out and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. It wasn’t a shove or a shake, it was a touch. ‘Turn it down,’ he said to him, and the other lad twisted the knob round. ‘Sorry, Howard,’ said Graeme, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

‘Sorry, Howard,’ repeated his friend.

They lay down and smiled at the sun.

The music was still low when I went back outside after fetching Robert an orange squash from the kitchen. Stooping over the patch, he was engrossed in his work, and didn’t hear me approach. His coarse hair was almost like a hat on his head, and I thought that he must be hot under it. His jaw had dropped in concentration, and he was up to his elbows in dirt.

‘You’ve planted them all.’

He looked up and nodded. The seed trays were empty, and there were two rows of plants in the soil. Not very straight, not evenly spaced, some of the leaves a little bashed, but they were in there. I crouched down beside him and put my arm round his shoulders. ‘You’ve done a very good job.’

Then the music’s volume increased. Only this time, one of the lads was singing along.

‘Shall we water them in?’

The singing next door became louder and laughter bubbled up into the air. I ignored it. My son had planted rows of sunflowers, and he had done it on his own.

‘Give them a good soaking,’ I said, handing Robert my stainless steel watering can.

‘Dad, I can’t – ’

Afterwards I knew that his fingers had opened with the weight of the water. I’d filled it too full, not thinking that his arms were a nine-year-old’s, a little boy’s arms. He dropped the can in the dirt, flooding the plants and engulfing his sandals in mud. There was a moment then, as we both stood there looking at the swampy mess, when I thought, if I can recover quickly enough, it will be like it never happened.