These days, John kept surprising him. “Thank you, lad,” he said, when the young man brought a towel and refilled the kettle, without being asked to do so. “Aye, I’ll ‘ave a cup.”

Surely the walls of this kitchen remembered echoing back the shouts, or trembling with the slamming of a door. Surely they still felt the occasional dish that had smashed to pieces on contact. Bill certainly remembered it; the obstinate disregard for rules, the insolent replies, the policeman knocking on their door, his disappointment, mutual punches thrown, Lottie’s tears, their shared anxiety for this young man who seemed determined to throw his life away and destroy his family in the process.

He did not know how it had happened, but five years in the army had straightened the lad out and Bill was increasingly pleased, even a little proud, when he looked at his eldest son now.

He washed his face and neck, drying it with the towel. He had done a shit job, because the towel, too, was turning grey. “Well, I don’t mind chippy.” His eyes landed on the letters on the table. “Any news from the big bosses?” The past that they were all trying to move beyond, had caught up with John in the shape of the Whitby Gazette, and his fate was still undecided.