He pushes a low table toward the bed with one foot and puts one of the mugs on it. The bed is almost on the floor, a king-size mattress on a pallet. I kneel down by the mattress and, gritting my teeth, roll onto it. After I’ve lain there panting for a minute or so, I say, “I was in the attic because I was looking for the blasted notebook.”

I tell him about the hole in the attic, my fall, the collapse of the house, Frobisher’s role in saving me, my injuries and hospitalization. I omit all talk of God. It’s a brief account, calmly related, but by the time I’ve finished his face has frozen.

“Bloody hell,” he breathes. “If I hadn’t taken the book . . .”

“No, no. The roof could have gone any time. I might have died in my bed.”

“Dad, don’t talk like that. So you’ve been in hospital and I didn’t know?” He passes a hand over his mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me!”

“What, you mean, rung you up?”

“All right, all right.” His eyes are hot.

“It was a good job you took the little chest,” I say after a pause. “Mum’s urn survived with a scratch, but the chest might not have been so lucky.”

“Yes. Especially when you remember that I only knew of her existence because Mum wrote about Catherine in her book. Listen to you. The chest. Not, Catherine’s ashes. Can’t you even say her name?”

I push myself up onto the pillows so that my head is high enough for me to drink tea. In my own time, I take hold of the mug and sip for a while. I’m very thirsty, I find.

“No, Tom, I can’t.”

That floors him. He lowers his eyes.

“Mum suffered.”

“Yes, she did.”

“And you were . . . nowhere.”

“True. I let her down. And I let you down by lying to you about the baby, and for that I am sincerely sorry.”

He still looks implacably angry. I expected to feel anguish, guilt, but I can’t summon any emotion at all. Maybe it’s the effect of the pills—I took one in the bathroom—or maybe I’m too tired. Or maybe I just can’t bring myself to plead for forgiveness. Maybe, after everything else, that is beyond me.

The bed is actually quite comfortable. I can contemplate turning onto my side.

“I’ve met Philip Moore, you know. He’s in Upton, looking after his mother. Bridie, who was so kind. She’s had a stroke, she can’t speak properly. I went to see him after I found out about—about him.”

“What did he say?”