‘Perhaps. Maybe arts. Writing. I like books.’

‘That’d be alright too.’ She nodded, and David followed suit. ‘Dickens is the go, eh?’

‘David Copperfield?’ I asked.

‘That’s a good one.’ She checked that Providence was real. Examined his teeth, and eyes, then mine. ‘Peter reckons you’re writin’ your own book?’

‘It’s just a first go.’

‘Reckons it’s about all of us.’

‘Sort of.’

I couldn’t help but think of the passage I’d just finished. Annie Douglas, pushing her disabled son down the street, stopping in front of Chris Knowlson’s house.

Nice music, Mr Knowlson.

Kamahl. He’s my favourite. What about you, Mrs Douglas?

Nat Cole. Nice and smooth.

That’s how they’d start off, anyway. Then there’d be issues over barking dogs, and Chris would call the council, and they’d send someone around, and it’d get worse.

‘Mrs Masharin reckons you should write about what you know.’

‘Well, that’s easy, you know us. There’s nothin’ you could say that’d upset us.’

You and yer dogs, Mrs Douglas. Keep me up all night.

I keep them inside. You’re determined to make trouble.

‘I can think of plenty to put in,’ Val said, sitting forward. ‘Remember that sports day, when David and Peter came along?’

I could. Father and son day. Pop had promised to come, but had fallen sick (not that it’d stopped him working in the shed). So, Mum’d asked the brothers, and they’d agreed. They’d walked me to school, and signed up for the 200 metres and longest kick. David wasn’t so bad, but when Peter joined the other dads for the shot-put … Business shorts and long socks and sandals, an early Catweazle beard that had already yellowed around the mouth from the smokes. As I called, Carn, Peter.

And Trevor Smith: Why d’you call your dad Peter?

He’s my neighbour.

Funny sort of neighbour. Looks like he’s been smoking something.

He’d come last, of course, because all the other dads had beefsteak legs and thunder thighs and wore shorts way too small. But as we walked home I said, Thanks for taking me.

No worries, Clem. Any time. Me and Dave know what it’s like.

‘So you gonna put that in?’ Val asked.

‘Don’t know yet.’

‘Main thing is, have a bita yer mum, and Pop. They did most for you. What’s it called?’

‘This Excellent Machine.’

‘Right. What’s the machine?’

‘You know, you go in one end and come out the other … different.’

‘That’s for sure.’ She pointed to a black-and-white photo of a young woman and man. ‘Me and Sid, many years ago. You wouldn’t recognise me now, eh?’

‘I can still see you.’