Sammy had never been a drinker. He enjoyed an occasional dram, but had never been drunk in his entire life. A week after the funeral he woke up in the morning to find himself lying on the hall floor at the foot of the stairs. He had failed to make it to his bed, their bed. When he struggled into the kitchen to make himself some tea, he discovered a scene worthy of a painting by Salvador Dali. There was a pot on the stove filled with washing powder. The door of the washing-machine was open and the clothes inside were covered by the contents of a tin of tomato soup. Everything was covered by foul-smelling vomit. That morning, for the very first time, Sammy experienced the horrors of a hangover. It was to be the first of many. Sammy had heard of the hair of the dog. It bit him with a vengeance. That day the shop stayed closed.

As the weeks passed, Sammy spent more time inside a bottle than he did at his work. The shop ran out of stock. Sammy could not summon up the enthusiasm to replace it. People tried to help, encourage, cajole, but to no avail. Eventually they were forced to take their custom elsewhere. There was nothing in Sammy’s shop to buy. The children could not understand what was wrong with their once favourite uncle. Sometimes he would not speak to them at all. On other occasions he would simply snatch their money and tell them to take whatever they wanted – not that there was much of a selection to choose from. Worst of all, he was now dirty and smelled.

One day at noon there was no sign of activity in the shop. Someone phoned the police who eventually made their way to Sammy’s home, once again. No answer led them to force entry. There was no sign of Sammy. He was gone and clearly did not intend to return. A scribbled note on the mantelpiece invited the finder to sell everything off and give the money to charity. Wandering round the sad house, the police officer quickly realised that there would not be much worth selling, although the wallpaper and carpets, beneath the dirt and stains, told him it had been a nice house – once.

Sammy McPhee left Clydebank, intending never to return. He took with him only the clothes he stood up in and the good Crombie coat Betty had bought for him. Material possessions had too many memories attached to them, and he had enough of these already. Remembering was easy. It was time to forget.

He travelled into Glasgow, heading he knew not where. Ten years later he had still not made up his mind.