Brendon was smiling as he steered them along, glad he was sober enough to witness his father and grandfather in such a drunken state. He could remember his eighteenth birthday when these two – accompanied by his Uncle Jim – had taken him into the Anchor for his first legal pint. Two tankards of bitter had got him very drunk and he’d been half-carried back to Beach View where he’d been violently sick in the back garden before passing out on Peggy’s scullery floor. He’d woken the following morning with a blinding hangover only to discover he was sharing a bed with his grandfather’s old dog Billy, the pup, Harvey, and a half-chewed beef bone. Now it was his turn to get them home in one piece.

They reached Camden Road and before Brendon could stop him, Ron had broken away from his clutches and was staggering across the road to the Anchor. The door was locked, and there was no sign of anyone being home despite the fact it was almost opening time.

Ron rattled the wrought-iron handle and began to bang on the door.

‘Grandad, don’t,’ hissed Brendon, urgently trying to pull him away.

Ron shrugged him off and staggered back from the door to look up to Rosie’s upstairs rooms. He swept off his cap, one hand held over his heart as he missed his footing and ended up standing in the gutter. ‘Rosie,’ he bellowed. ‘Rosie, me darlin’ – ’tis your Ron come to serenade you.’

‘Grandad, shut up,’ Brendon hissed as the sound echoed down the deserted street and his father clung to a nearby lamp post in fits of laughter. Brendon tugged Ron’s arm, but it was as if he was glued to the ground.

‘Rosie, oh Rosie,’ sang Ron, off key. ‘Lovely sweet Rosie mine.’

‘Oh, Lord,’ groaned Brendon. He was frantic to shut him up and drag him away, but even so he could feel laughter bubbling up as Ron continued his caterwauling. ‘Grandad, please stop making that awful racket,’ he spluttered. ‘You’ll get us all arrested.’

‘I’ll not be leaving until I see my lovely Rosie,’ Ron replied, stripping off his coat to leave it puddled on the pavement as he promptly began to murder ‘The Rose of Tralee’.

‘For the love of God, will you stop, Da,’ groaned Frank as he slid down the lamp post and ended up sprawled on the pavement, helpless with laughter. ‘To be sure me sides are aching, so they are.’

‘Come on, Grandad,’ pleaded Brendon. ‘She’s not here and we have to get home.’

Ron threw off his hand. ‘Of course she’s here,’ he muttered. ‘She’s always here.’ He tipped back his head. ‘You’re waiting for me, aren’t you, Rosie – my sweet, darlin’ girl? Waiting for your Ron.’

The window above was thrown open and Rosie glared down at them.