After the London trip, we didn’t invite Paul on any more birthday outings. I managed to avoid seeing him very often, as Robert would go round to Paul’s house after school on most days, leaving us looking at the clock, waiting for our son’s return.

Then one day Kathryn suggested that Paul should come for Sunday lunch.

On the Saturday afternoon after work, she went to Hughes’s and bought a whole chicken. Usually we had pieces, as Kathryn doesn’t like the bones, but on that Saturday she came home from the library with a carrier bag full of bird dangling from her handlebars. I didn’t say anything as she rinsed it under the tap and stored it in the fridge, a bloody piece of kitchen towel beneath, ready for his arrival.

As always, I spent Sunday morning in the garden. The metal of the secateurs was cool on my knuckles as I cut back the chrysanthemums. It no longer pained me to cut things back fiercely. When I’d started gardening, I’d worried that I would go in too hard, overdo it, cut off my chances entirely with those stubby blades. But I was wiser now; things always came back, and they came back all the better for being cut down.

‘Hello, Mr Hall.’

Paul stood above me, shielding his eyes from the watery sun. His jacket was bright blue; his training shoes were bright white. Both looked as though they had been pumped full of air.

Robert wasn’t far behind. ‘Let’s go inside,’ I heard him say to Paul.

But Paul ignored him. ‘Doing some gardening?’

‘Pruning.’ I clipped off another stalk.

Paul stroked a pimple on his chin and waited for more.

‘Dad’s always gardening,’ said Robert. He touched the gold chain he’d taken to wearing around his neck and looked at Paul. They were about the same height, but now Robert was the more solid-looking. His arms and legs no longer seemed stretched; it was as if they had always been that size. They were settled into their pattern of striding and swinging, swinging and striding.

‘My mum says you’ve got the best garden in the street, Mr Hall,’ said Paul.

‘Let’s go inside,’ Robert said again.

‘She says you must be obsessed with gardening.’ Paul grinned down at me.

‘Robert liked gardening, when he was younger,’ I said.

Paul let out a hoot of laughter. For a minute I wished I hadn’t said anything, but to my surprise Robert didn’t flinch; he just stared at Paul until his outbreak of mirth passed.

Eventually Paul looked down at the grass.

‘He was very good at it, too,’ I said.

‘Dad,’ said Robert, with a small smile, ‘Paul’s not interested in that.’

I straightened up. ‘Well. You boys should wash your hands. I expect dinner’s nearly ready.’