He stepped towards me, his eyes on mine. It was odd and intense and not completely uncomfortable. He shook his head, keeping his eyes on mine. ‘It’s not that, you silly sod. God almighty, you think we’d be carrying on with one another? Felicity Eagles, you will be the bloody death of me.’ He put his hand on his injury. Gave a little chuckle as if he were imagining it. ‘Me and Cordelia? Bloody hell, I don’t think I’d be able to! She scares the living daylights out of me, that one. It was a present – a thank you for something. Don’t be bothering your head about it.’

I wasn’t going to leave it. My dander was up and too many people had been unkind to me. I wanted an explanation.

‘You don’t write poetry, John Goose. You’re a plumber.’

He looked a little hurt at that. ‘I wrote you poems when I was at sea,’ he said. ‘When we were courting I put nice words in our letters. You said you liked it. And I did those limericks for James and Peter when they were little. It’s just a silly thing, something I play at. It’s embarrassing. I didn’t mention it to you because there was nowt to mention and they’re just rubbish really. Just doodles but with words.’

‘But you showed Cordelia?’ I demanded.

He gave a shrug that almost got him a slap across the chops. ‘I said something about a tree looking like something-or-other,’ he mumbled. ‘Some nice little phrase that she was taken with. She was up visiting you and you’d gone to get something and we were chatting in the kitchen. She said I had a poet’s soul. Nobody’s ever said owt like that to me. So I told her that I scribbled down bits and bobs now and then. She asked to see. I thought she were just being polite, like. But she read the few I gave her and gave me some notes and, well, I’ve got OK at it. And then she gave me a nice book to put them in. She thinks I should show them to you but I’ve never felt like you’d want to see them. They’re not all jolly, Felicity. There’s sad stuff about Peter. Some of it’s just plain rubbish.’

I shook my head at him, not yet ready to forgive him. I’d imagined all sorts and I wasn’t about to be so easily persuaded down from my high horse. ‘You wrote some things about me,’ I said. ‘Rude stuff.’

He looked past me, embarrassed. ‘You weren’t meant to look.’

I held the book out for him. ‘Go on then,’ I said. ‘Take it back. It’s obviously special if you carry it everywhere with you.’