She doesn’t answer because a man has appeared next to her. He’s white-haired, with a face that looks like a crumpled-up paper bag. He smells of Brylcreem. There’s a nick on his jaw, crusted and dark, and I know it’s because he uses an old-fashioned horsehair shaving brush, foam and a cut-throat razor.

‘Hello, Dad,’ I say.

Thank you for your kindness. I don’t talk about it much – the memories are too painful – but perhaps we can share our stories when we know each other a little better. I don’t have many friends. Friends can make you vulnerable. But I like talking to you, Hero.

And how about you? Who are the most important people in your life? What you said about the lack of family resonated with me. It’s a certain type of loneliness, isn’t it? Let’s face it, blood ties are stronger, they bind us together in ways that friendship can’t. What about your mother? Are you close?

11

‘Why don’t we have any photographs of Granny and Grandpa?’

Catherine was rolling out gingerbread dough at the kitchen island and Honor was sitting opposite her, watching. There was no escape. She willed herself to appear calm and breathed through her nose to fight the nausea that overwhelmed her whenever her daughter asked difficult questions.

‘They were destroyed in the fire.’ She handed Honor the pastry cutter and busied herself with shaking currants from the bag. ‘Don’t forget to press down hard.’

‘Doesn’t anyone else in your family have pictures of them?’

‘Goodness, I don’t remember. It was so long ago.’

‘Why don’t you ask them?’ Honor placed the first gingerbread man on the baking tray. ‘Or I could ask them for you, if you like.’ She wrinkled her nose, as if puzzling something out. ‘Mum, why don’t we have any contact with your family?’

Catherine cut out another biscuit and peeled the dough from the floury work surface.

‘Life can be complicated, sweetheart.’

‘Could I see them? If I wanted to, I mean.’

Catherine did not know how to answer that question. The hole she had dug for herself was so deep she could never climb out of it without being buried under its collapsing walls.

She was rescued – temporarily, at least – by the ringing of her mobile. Eliza flashed up on the screen. It didn’t surprise her. They didn’t speak as often these days, but her timing, as always, was impeccable. She must have seen the documentary trailers.

‘I was just calling to see how you are.’ The voice at the end of the line was warm and unexpectedly welcome.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Sure?’

‘I think so.’

Honor was pushing currant eyes into rolled-out dough and singing Christmas songs, and she angled herself away from her daughter, pressing the receiver closer to her ear so she could hear what was being suggested.