I saw another envelope sitting among the brochures and bills and knitting patterns. And on the front: Clem. It was open, and a few strands of fine, blond hair poked out like she’d been looking at them, holding them, smelling them, even. She turned to me and saw I was interested. She sat, picked up the pot and started pouring. ‘Just a keepsake,’ she said.

I didn’t know what to say.

‘If I’s smart I’d throw it, and forget. That’d make sense, wouldn’t it?’

‘No,’ I said. The couple of photos of the stranger; his smell as he stood at the door; his voice. Small, real, knowable. ‘You can’t forget.’

She just looked ahead. She’d tried to explain about Wilf; that was something. But some things defied explanation. The jumpers. The lamb’s wool, soft on the cheek, and arse. The powder. I told her about it and said, ‘I reckon I oughta give it back.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s yours. I shoulda given it to you a long time ago.’

And we just sat, silently, drinking tea. In time Peter wheeled his brother into the kitchen, which was the heart of the house. He said, ‘Nother coupla days.’

Davo smiled. We were still feigning sleep, and Val was still saying, ‘We gotta get Clem to school.’

Mrs Masharin was our own commissar, Soviet discipline made word in the Gleneagles Steppes. Short skirt and unforgiving pantyhose, knee-high boots (always polished) and an industrious shirt; hair up (bun narrowly avoided) and a slight accent that could’ve been anything European, but we were so white-bread we didn’t know. She looked at me and said, ‘Nice big voice.’ Each word separate, in her usual permafrost accent.

The new radio studio (Mr de Weerd’s idea) had started broadcasting across the school grounds every Monday, Wednesday and Friday at recess and lunch. Light classics, mainly, courtesy of Ms Field’s expansive Comoesque record collection, but the powers that be had conceded, allowing a pop segment (Spandau Ballet, Boy George), an electronic music corner (there were other Kraftwerk fans) and Mrs Masharin’s literature salon.

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘It will be fine,’ she replied. Not even it’ll, just it will. That’s what I was up against.

Dwayne Schuit had been made producer. He sat at a control desk outside the studio. Dwayne of the Komputer Klub (‘Fun Programming in Basic’), debating and chess club. Dwayne, who’d missed out on a private education, but wore a tie and jacket to school anyway. Quoting Python ten years before anyone else; topping Year Eleven Latin (narrowly beating Curtis) and Classics, making it clear he wanted to study arts. He said, ‘Nearly ready, Mrs Masharin.’

I clutched the pages of my new novel. She’d read the first few chapters, declared them genius and said, ‘I insist, a reading for the Wednesday salon.’

‘No, I don’t reckon.’

‘This week, you see, everyone will hear and love.’