Afterwards Johnnie invited Vic to ‘play for his supper’, clearing a pile of newspapers, clothes and a cat basket to reveal a dusty upright piano. Despite a few stuck keys and a general lack of tuning, he managed to stumble through a few ragtime numbers. Lizzie and the children danced and cheered when he finished, with calls of ‘encore, encore,’ to which of course he obliged. How could he refuse, when it clearly brought such joy? This is how family life should be, Vic thought to himself, not the stilted conversation in the overstuffed drawing room at his aunt’s, nor the stifling propriety at the home of his school friend Kenny. His own life seemed so empty, so barren, and his head ached with envy.

When it came time for bed, Johnnie led him upstairs to what was clearly the son’s bedroom. ‘The boy’ll be fine on Beth’s floor,’ he said when Vic protested. Left alone, he looked around, instantly overwhelmed with nostalgia. Toy trains, lead soldiers, a half-built Meccano crane, piles of comics, and books with titles like Fun for Boys transported him immediately back to his bedroom in India. He could even hear the mournful descending scale of the coucal bird and the harsh alarm calls of the parakeets that massed in the trees behind the bungalow, and smell the sandalwood incense his mother burned each day when preparing her puja.

Leaving for England more than a decade ago, little knowing that he would never see the house again, nor hear those sounds, smell those smells, he’d given it scarcely a backward glance. Besides his school uniform and regulation sports kit, the only personal possessions he’d brought with him were a teddy bear and a framed photograph of his mother and father on their honeymoon, riding an elephant.

He took up a tin car and sniffed it. The tang of metal and lead paint brought tears to his eyes. Mourning for his truncated childhood and grieving for the mother he only vaguely remembered, Vic curled up on the bed and finally fell asleep.

Christmas brought another visit to his father in Tunbridge Wells. Aunt Vera seemed to be suffering from some kind of wasting disease, an unspecified illness about which he dared not ask but which seemed to keep her confined to her room most of the time. After the spaciousness of the Manor, the narrow terraced house felt even more stifling than on his previous visit, especially since the weather, which had been snowy and bitter the week before, had turned suddenly wet and unseasonably mild.

There was no roast this year, only a cut of tinned ham for his father, and Smedley’s tinned new potatoes and mixed vegetables – soggy and metallic-tasting, even after Vic warmed them up with butter and sprinkled them with grated cheese. In the dead of night, after everyone else had retired, he went downstairs and made toast. His father had become ever slower in his movements and greyer around the eyes, and he felt assailed with guilt for failing to visit more frequently.