My father comes up the warm, bright street on foot. Though he does not now get any more grey, there is still something rakish in his gait, an invitation to levity that increasingly few people might recognise. His tan has made his eyes more pale, less blue. He is as familiar to me as myself.

'Hi, Dad.'

He shoots me a look of complicity from the door: I have been standing, page 145 thus, in his kitchen since last year,

'He'll get caught, yet. Your brother. He's taken the car off boozing at the lake.'

'Ah. It used to be a straight line home. How are you?'

'Good. Just fine. Apart from the piles, eh, Mum?'

'Anthony doesn't want your piles, dear. He's been waiting for some dinner.'

'Am I late? I must have got trapped at the club. Terry had his daughter in. I said we might see them tomorrow.'

'We should be taking Davey out.'

'Of course,' says my father. 'Are you having a beer, Tony?' he asks with a smile.

*