‘I should thank Ernie,’ she said.

She knew. Gary had told her.

‘Perhaps,’ I replied.

‘You don’t reckon?’

‘Na … that’s why he left it under the door.’

She thought about this. ‘Yairs.’ And more. ‘Coulda kept it for himself.’

‘I reckon he’s got plenty. Reckon when he dies they’ll find millions under the floorboards. Union money.’

She stared out of the window at number 35. ‘He reckoned he was gonna sell his Val Doonican collection, but he still plays them.’

‘Wouldn’t get much for Val Doonican.’

‘I dunno.’ She could hear him, as she’d been hearing him for years. ‘Only the Heartaches’. Or ‘O’Rafferty’s Motor Car’. They were her favourites. She’d stand, cooking her cakes, singing along to Ern’s records. Like they were one, dancing in his front room, while Ida looked on angrily.

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.