Harold’s mouth drenched at the memory. He ate all the biscuits in his plastic bag, but they did not satisfy the craving for something that he thought was food, and he was not appeased by them. His spittle was thick and white as paste. Approaching passers-by, he hid his mouth behind his handkerchief, hoping not to cause alarm. He bought two pints of long-life milk and drank in gulps that spilled down his chin. He took it too fast but the need was so intense he couldn’t reason with it; he tugged again and again at the carton with his mouth. The milk wouldn’t flow swiftly enough. A few feet on, he had to stop to be sick. He couldn’t stop thinking of the time his mother left.

In packing her suitcase, she had robbed him not only of her laughter but also of the only person taller than himself. You could never describe Joan as affectionate, but at least she stood between her son and the clouds. The aunts passed him sweets, or went to pinch his cheek, or even asked his opinion about the fit of a dress, but the world seemed suddenly to have no edges, and he shrank from their touch.

“I’m not saying he’s odd,” his Aunty Muriel had said. “He just doesn’t look at you.”

Harold made it as far as Bickleigh, where according to his guidebook he should visit the small red-brick castle nestling on the banks of the River Exe. However, a long-faced man in olive trousers informed him that his guidebook was sadly out of date, unless Harold was interested in a luxury wedding or a murder mystery weekend. Instead he directed Harold to the craft and gift shop at Bickleigh Mill, where he might find something more to his taste and budget.

He looked at the glass trinkets and lavender bags and a selection of locally carved hanging bird feeders, but none of them struck him as desirable, or even necessary. This made him sad. He wanted to leave but since he was the only person in the shop, and the assistant was staring, he felt obliged to make a purchase. He came away with four tablemats for Queenie, offering laminated views of Devon. For his wife he chose a biro that shone a dull red when you pressed the nib, so that she could write in the dark, if she ever felt the inclination.

Harold no-mum, the boys called him at school. He began to take days off, weeks, until his classmates seemed such strangers he felt he was a different species. His Aunt Muriel wrote notes: Harold had a headache, Harold looks pasty. Sometimes she fetched out the dictionary and got more creative: Harold had a spot of biliousness at about 6pm on Tuesday. When he failed his exams he stopped going altogether.