Four and a half hours later I reach Unthank Road in heavy rain. Tom’s street is on the left—naturally—and number 23 is halfway up. Parking is a trial, getting out of the car is perfect agony. I rap on the door, rain pours over my head and mackintoshed shoulders. Nobody comes. With immense weariness I make my way back down the steps, preparing to fold myself back into the car and wait.

A drenched figure is loping up the street. Wet hair in his eyes, a bag of groceries swinging from one hand. No raincoat, just a soaked denim jacket and flared trousers with a tidemark of damp approaching his knees. He’s slowing now, squeezing one hand into a tight pocket for his house key. Mildly muttering, probably at the rain. I move into his line of sight.

“Oh, God Almighty,” he says.

I don’t reply. Silently he lets us in. He squelches into the kitchen and I follow him. He takes off his jacket and spreads it over a vast radiator. Then he hands me a dishcloth: “For your hair.” He’s far wetter than I am, but it doesn’t seem to bother him at all. The cloth is dry, though, smells of nothing more offensive than baked beans. Tom lights a match under the kettle, glances at me again.

“Sit down, Dad.”

“I’d rather stand, if it’s all the same.”

“Suit yourself.” He sighs. “I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye. But I was so . . . What’s the word for a mixture of rage, disgust, and grief?”

“Do you need a single word? Those three convey your meaning perfectly well.”

I take hold of the back of a kitchen chair and try to laugh in a way that will hurt me the least. The resulting noise is a strange panting exhalation, like a man entering an Arctic sea.

“Dad. Are you having a heart attack?”

The young. It’s the first thing they think of.

“No, I’m fine. Oh. Ah.”

“Come on. You’re clutching your left side.” Red-faced with worry, he rushes past me out of the room. “I’m calling an ambulance.”

I follow him. “Tom”—catching up with him in the hall, putting a hand on his shoulder as he picks up the receiver. “It’s okay,” I gasp. “I’ve broken a couple of ribs, that’s all.”

“What the hell?” He hangs up the phone. “How did you do that? Don’t tell me—mucking about in the attic. Am I right?”

“Mm-hm.”