I waited while he decided. He couldn’t tell me, of course, but guessed (I guessed) a boy needed to know.

‘She says, He hit me again, and Mum puts her arm around her, and I ask her, You want to go to the police? She says yes. So off we go, and they throw Les out and the whole street sees and he screams and …’

A woman looked around and hushed us. Some sort of official (in a pantomime police suit) looked up and said, ‘Quiet, please.’

Then, the fence saga went to mediation.

‘So?’ I asked.

‘He was charged with assault.’

‘She did that?’

‘After some persuading … my persuading, which I never felt good about. But you can’t be faint-tickered if yer gonna be a lawyer.’

It was a revelation. But one the street had chosen to forget.

‘It’d have to go to court,’ Peter said. ‘So the day arrived and I went with her. We got out of the car, crossed the car park and she stopped. She holds my arm and says, I can’t do it. I tell her they’re waiting but she just turns and walks off. And that was it.’

‘What was?’

‘A week later he moved back in, and that was the last we ever heard of it. The last I ever practised.’

Peter’s teeth were yellow. Too many smokes, as he sat listening to scratchy Chopin. It was like he’d perfected imperfection. Come to believe in the crustiness and mothball smell of all people. And having accepted this, set about living with it. There was no point changing yourself, your loved ones, your neighbours. People were, and always would be. You just had to get on with it, make the best of the worst, mow your lawn mechanically, encourage others, spread love like burley on polluted waters, seek the middle path (every day), plan for a future of simple, caring acts (including wiping your brother’s arse).

‘You never had no more problems with Les?’ I asked.

He thought about this. ‘He never mentioned it, Wendy never mentioned it and in time it was like it’d never happened.’

The fence saga was adjourned and the clerk summoned Mr Peter Donnellan, of number 33 Lanark Avenue, Gleneagles. He stood, said, ‘Wish me luck,’ and approached the stand. His singlet stuck out under his jacket. Val had told him to shave, but he’d refused. That’d be like accepting their authority. After all, who’d given these people the right to decide about cats?

‘A few weeks ago,’ he said, ‘my mother, an elderly pensioner who receives an allowance to care for my disabled brother, was told, without notice, her cats were being removed. Then, in a display of bullying and intimidation, two council officers dragged her pets into the back of a van.’

The mayor, his offsider, the councillors, and assembled, seemed to be trying to work him out.