‘As long as they sang, things were good. But when they stopped, at dusk, it made him think there was more to night than darkness.’

‘What the hell’s that mean?’ Curtis asked.

Colin Davies said, ‘Is that what you wanted? I could’ve written that.’

‘No, you couldn’t,’ she said. ‘This is writing of the highest calibre. The cats were gathered around the wire, trying to get in, and he shooed them. But they returned, hungry. Dozens, desperate for something to eat, and Mr Lawrence saw this, and was determined to stop them.’

‘You’re in,’ Curtis said.

But I wasn’t even thinking about that. More, how Peter might have been right.

I watched how the light settled on Pop’s hands, in the fine wire grid set in the glass of the shed louvres. The tremor was getting worse, but nothing more, perhaps, than any old person’s shaking. I’d read about it. It was to be expected. Parkinson’s perhaps. He lifted a spanner from the bench and said, ‘This’ll do,’ and cleaned it with a rag.

‘What do you think?’ I asked.

‘E-Type?’

‘Yeah.

‘Lotta work, boyo. You’re quite welcome to the shed. Maybe John could help you?’

‘I thought you could.’

His hands hovered above the tools. An archaeology of life, a mechanic’s, sitting collecting dust. He lifted a paint scraper and said, ‘This might help him.’ He cleaned it and placed it beside a wrench. ‘And you always need a couple of …’ He studied it. ‘A couple of …’

‘Wrenches?’ I asked.

He glared at me, like this object had never had a name, but I’d devised one, and somehow it fit. ‘It’ll be a lot of work.’

‘But it’s a Jag.’

‘Clapped out piece of shit. It used to be in here. He asked me to rebuild the motor, and I gave him a quote. He asked me to wait, but months later I had to tell him I needed the room.’

‘But it’ll be okay? With a bita work?’

He messed my hair. An old thing. A reminder of other Clems.

‘Perhaps, but you’ll need parts. He’s offered to buy them?’

‘No.’

‘Didn’t think so.’

‘But he’s giving me the Jag.’

He smiled. ‘No one never gives you nothin’, Clem. He’s gettin’ rid of some old junk.’

I didn’t agree. Jags were worth money, and this was a classic.

‘So it’s a present?’

‘When I finish my novel.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘He’s trying to motivate me.’

He didn’t get this. ‘Tell him you don’t want it. Hurry up and get yer licence and we’ll buy you a 180B.’

I thought about it. A 180B? Clean, easy, simple. I could imagine taking Curtis to town, bars, girls, and steamed-up windows. You had far better prospects with a Datsun.