I’ve never really understood my father. He’s always been a bit stand-offish with me. In fact, I sometimes wonder if I might have been adopted. The worst times are meal times. There is so much silence and formality, shouting at me if I hold my knife or fork in the wrong way, or – even more unforgiveable – if I talk with my mouth full.

Sometimes, at home, I’ll go round to my friend’s parents’ house and knock on their door, asking if Cliff’s at home even when I know he isn’t, just so they’ll invite me in for a cup of tea or a squash or something. Cliff’s mum’s Scottish and a real gossip so it’s a chance to catch up on what all the neighbours are up to. She seems to know everything. She’s fun. His dad’s very friendly too. It’s somewhere I can relax without getting told off all the time, or worse than that, getting slippered. But you should hear what my father says about Cliff’s dad behind his back. He’s always saying things like ‘he’s never made anything of himself’ just because he’s a salesman for Reckitts, whereas my father runs the family building firm.

My mum’s OK. She doesn’t like Father doing that anyway, the slippering that is (and it flipping hurts, I can tell you), but she won’t stand up to him when he’s in one of his moods. I think she’s a bit in awe of him – either that or frightened of him – or a bit of both.

I’m not saying my father’s a monster. He’s not. I suppose it’s just because he had a very formal upbringing too. I mean, my grandpa is even more frightening. Always quoting these odd phrases from Shakespeare at every turn. To me, it’s silly language and means nothing, but you can tell he thinks he’s very clever and it’s all terribly profound. When I was a young boy he’d always be pressing this penknife blade against my thumb or finger, rasping at me: ‘What’s this, boy? It’s a blunt knife, that’s what it is.’ I never really understood the point of that. Was I supposed to be frightened? And why the odd emphasis on the word blunt? I think he’s a bit mental. Him and Father are always arguing, usually about the business.

Look, I know there are boys worse off than me. I know I don’t have a bad life. ‘You’re lucky you don’t live in one of those slums,’ my father will say when we’re driving past Hessle Road. He’s right, of course. There’s talk of sending me off to boarding school soon. I don’t want to go. However bad it is at home, I don’t want that.

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