I knew my knife was too blunt for the job. I remembered that somewhere in the cutlery drawer there was a sharpening stick, unused. Paul’s father probably knew how to sharpen a knife on such an implement, wiping it back and forth along the granite at just the right angle, flicking his wrist like a painter. He’d know how to plunge the knife into the bird, puncturing the crisped skin with the tip of his blade and slicing through so that slivers of clean, gleaming meat folded down like yards of silk on a dressmaker’s table.

‘Leg or breast, Paul?’ asked Kathryn.

‘I’m easy, Mrs Hall.’

The two boys exchanged a smirk.

I sawed through the string that held the legs tight to the bird. It pinged back under the carcass, splattering my hand with pink juice. I stripped off clumps of breast meat and heaped them on the plates. Occasionally my blade hit a bone and there was a cracking noise.

I served myself last: two wings and a stringy piece of breast.

Robert picked up his fork, but before he could start to eat I raised my glass and cleared my throat. ‘We should make a toast.’

Robert held up his glass, and Paul followed.

‘What to?’ Robert asked.

I thought for a moment. The two boys leaned together, their elbows almost touching. I noticed that they both wore matching leather straps around their wrists.

‘To friendship.’

We all drank.

Afterwards, Robert and Paul washed up. Kathryn said we should leave them to it, so I poured myself another glass of Riesling and sat with the papers.

I tried to concentrate on the print in front of me, but I kept getting halfway down a column and then realising I hadn’t taken in a single word. Their laughter was interrupting me.

When I heard a squeal, I looked over at Kathryn, but she didn’t take her eyes off her book.

On the third squeal, I stood up. My head felt slightly woolly from the wine.

‘Leave them,’ said Kathryn.

‘They might have broken something.’

‘I didn’t hear anything.’

I sat back in the chair and folded the paper on my knees. Then I unfolded it.

There was another squeal, and a splash.

‘I think I should go and look.’

‘They’re fine, Howard.’

‘But I think I should check.’

I wasn’t sure if I wanted them to hear me open the door, or what I expected to find behind it, but when I stepped into the kitchen the two boys didn’t seem to see me at all. Both of them had wet hair; Robert’s was covered in soap suds. The kitchen floor tiles were streaked with foam.