‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ Mr Kimball said, although he didn’t sound too pleased. He was dabbing ink from his shirtsleeve, tutting at himself. ‘It sounds as though you’ve found yourself a home. And that’s exactly what we want.’

‘I hope I have.’ He finally lit the ciggie he’d been worrying with his fingers.

‘And what about your aunty – Helen, isn’t it? The one you lived with.’

‘Yes, sir. What about her?’

‘Well, last I heard, you planned to phone her. Did you ever manage it?’

‘No, I just – I couldn’t. I suppose I couldn’t face it. But I’ve written to her.’

‘And she hasn’t written back, I take it.’

‘No, not yet. She probably won’t.’

‘Can I ask what you put in your letter?’

For a moment, he was back there, at the little table in his room upstairs. The breeze was whistling through the open sash and pushing at the edges of his paper. He was hearing the rabble of hens down in the yard below as Florence went into the coop to fetch their eggs, and thinking what a clear and pleasant sky it was out there, above the sway of trees, how alive the day seemed from his window and how dead he felt when he returned his pencil to the letter full of clichés he’d produced.

‘Only that I’ve found a place I’m happy and I hope she’s happy for me too,’ he said. ‘And that, you know – I’m sorry if I caused her any trouble.’

‘I’m sure she would appreciate that sort of letter – anybody would.’

‘Right, but you’ve not met my aunty Helen. She’d cut off her entire head to spite her face, I swear. It’s hopeless. In her eyes, I made my choice – and I chose Joyce instead of her.’

‘It can’t be that straightforward, surely?’

‘Well, she’s said as much. She only wrote to me in borstal once – I got the message loud and clear. It’s your own damn fault. You should’ve listened. Now you’ll see how tough the world is on your own. As if I didn’t know all that already. But I don’t regret it.’

‘Really?’ Mr Kimball leaned away and crossed his arms. ‘Surprised to hear you say that, Charlie.’

‘No, I mean, I’m sorry that we took the car – that wasn’t right. Of course that wasn’t right. But I can’t say I miss my aunty. Maybe at the start, the first few weeks inside. Remand was hard. But not right now. I know that makes me sound ungrateful, given how she took us in. Perhaps I am ungrateful. But I can’t pretend I miss that house. The way she was. Bossing me about, as if I was her son – her husband even. And I don’t like most of what she raised me up to think.’

‘Such as?’