He tried to distract himself with thinking about Queenie, or David, but none of these thoughts took shape. He would find a memory and lose it as quickly. He would recall his son saying, “I bet you can’t name all the countries in the continent of Africa”; but even as he tried to think of one, his leg would flash with pain and he would forget what it was he was trying to remember. After half a mile, it was as if his shin had been cut; he could barely put any weight on the leg. He had to use a heavy long step with his left foot, and only a skittish hop on his right. By mid-morning, the sky had filled with a dense blanket of cloud. No matter how he looked at it, he couldn’t help feeling that walking north, walking up England, had become the same as climbing a hill. Even the flat stretches of road suddenly appeared to have an upward slant.

He couldn’t lose the picture in his mind of his father slumped on a kitchen chair, waiting for his mother. The image had always been there, but he felt he was seeing it for the first time. His father had maybe been sick down his pyjamas. It was best not to breathe through your nose.

“Go away,” he said. But his eyes swerved so fast from Harold to the walls, it was hard to tell which he found most offensive.

When they heard, neighbours consoled his father. Joan was her own person, they said. It’s a blessing; at least you’re young enough to start again. Suddenly there was an unprecedented abundance of female life in the house. Windows were thrown open, cupboards emptied, bedding aired. Casseroles, pies and jellied meat appeared, along with suet puddings, jams and fruitcake wrapped in brown paper. There had never been so much food; mealtimes were not of particular interest to his mother. Black and white photographs disappeared into handbags. Red lipsticks vanished from the bathroom, as did her bottles of scent. He saw her on street corners, and crossing roads. He even caught sight of her waiting for him after school, only to dash out and discover she was a lady he didn’t know, wearing one of his mother’s hats or skirts. Joan always liked the bright colours. His thirteenth birthday came and went, with no word from her. After six months, Harold couldn’t even smell her in the bathroom cabinet. His father began to fill the spaces that had held his wife with distant relations.

“Say hello to your Aunty Muriel,” he’d say. He was out of his dressing gown. Instead he was wearing a suit that stuck out from his shoulders. He had even shaved.

“Goodness, he’s big.” The woman was a wide face poking out of a fur coat, with fingers like sausages around a bag of macaroons. “Would he like one?”