‘I’ll always be sad and maybe even a bit angry that I never got to meet you, but now I want to say thank you too. You gave me a lot, without knowing it. I think I’m like you in good ways – and probably a few not-so-good ways. You gave me blue eyes and my hair colour and the fact that I think Marmite is revolting and the ability to do black ski runs and … Well, apparently you also gave me a certain amount of mood iness – that’s other people’s opinion, by the way. Not mine.’

There was a little ripple of laughter.

‘But mostly you gave me a family I didn’t know I had. And that’s cool. Because, to be honest, it wasn’t going that well before they all turned up.’ Her smile wavered.

‘We’re very happy you turned up,’ Georgina called out.

I felt Sam’s fingers squeeze mine. He wasn’t meant to be standing so long but, typically, he refused to sit down. I’m not a bloody invalid. I let my head rest against him, fighting the lump that had risen to my throat.

‘Thanks, G. So, um, Will … Dad, I’m not going to go on and on because speeches are boring and also that baby is going to start wailing any minute, which will totally harsh the mood. But I just wanted to say thank you, from your daughter, and that I … love you and I’ll always miss you, and I hope if you’re looking down, and you can see me, you’re glad. That I exist. Because me being here sort of means you’re still here, doesn’t it?’ Lily’s voice cracked and her eyes filled with tears. Her gaze slid towards Camilla, who gave a small nod. Lily sniffed, and lifted her chin.

‘I thought maybe now would be a good time for everyone to release their balloons?’

There was a barely perceptible release of breath, a few shuffled steps. Behind me the handful of members of the Moving On Circle murmured among themselves, reaching into the gently bobbing bundle for a string.

Lily was the first to step forward, holding her white helium balloon. She lifted her arm, then, as an afterthought, picked a tiny blue cornflower from one of her pots, and tied it carefully to the string. Then she raised her hand and, after the briefest hesitation, released the balloon.

I watched as Steven Traynor followed, saw Della’s gentle squeeze of his arm. Camilla released hers, then Fred, Sunil, then Georgina, her arm linked with her mother’s. My mother, Treena, Dad, blowing his nose noisily into his handkerchief, and Sam. We stood in silence on the roof and watched them sail upwards, one by one into the clear blue sky, growing smaller and smaller until they were somewhere infinite, unseen.

I let mine go.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The man in the salmon-coloured shirt was on his fourth Danish pastry, wedging great iced wads of it into his open mouth with chubby fingers, and sluicing periodically sluicing it down with a pint of cold lager. ‘Breakfast of champions,’ muttered Vera, as she walked past me with a tray of glasses and made a fake gagging noise. I felt a fleeting, reflexive gratitude that I was no longer in charge of the Gents.

‘So, Lou! What does a man have to do to get some service around here?’ A short distance away, Dad had perched himself on a stool and was leaning over the bar, examining the various beers. ‘Do I need to show a boarding card to buy a drink?’

‘Dad –’

‘Quick trip to Alicante? What do you think, Josie? Fancy it?’

My mother nudged him. ‘We should look into it this year. We really should.’

‘You know, it’s not a bad aul’ place this. Once you get past the daft idea of actual kids being allowed in an actual pub.’ Dad shuddered and glanced behind him to where a young family, their flight evidently delayed, had spread a mixture of Lego and raisins all over the table while they eked out two coffees. ‘So what do you recommend, sweetheart, eh? What’s good on the old pumps?’

I eyed Richard, who was approaching with his clipboard. ‘It’s all good, Dad.’

‘Apart from those outfits,’ said Mum, eyeing Vera’s too-short green Lurex skirt.

‘Head Office,’ said Richard, who had already endured two conversations with my mother about the objectification of women in the workplace. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

‘You got any stout there, Richard?’

‘We have Murphy’s, Mr Clark. It’s a lot like Guinness, although I wouldn’t say as much to a purist.’

‘I’m no purist, son. If it’s wet and it says “beer” on the label it’ll do for me.’

Dad smacked his lips in approval and the glass was set down in front of him. My mother accepted a coffee with her ‘social’ voice. She used it almost everywhere in London now, like a visiting dignitary being shown around a production line: So that’s a lah-tay, is it? Well, that looks simply lovely. And what a clever machine.

My father patted the bar stool beside her. ‘Come and sit down, Lou. Come on. Let me buy my daughter a drink.’

I glanced over at Richard. ‘I’ll have a coffee, Dad,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

We sat at the bar in silence, as Richard served us, and my father made himself at home, as he did in every bar he ever sat in, nodding a greeting to fellow bar dwellers, settling on his stool as if it were his favourite easy chair. It was as if the presence of a row of optics and a hard surface on which to rest his elbows created an instant spiritual home. And at all times he kept within inches of my mother, patting her leg appreciatively or holding her hand. They barely left each other alone, these days, heads pressed together, giggling like teenagers. It was utterly revolting, according to my sister. She told me before she set off for work that she had almost preferred it when they weren’t talking. ‘I had to sleep with earplugs last Saturday. Can you imagine the horror? Granddad looked quite white over breakfast.’

Outside, a small passenger plane slowed on the runway and taxied towards the terminal, a man in a reflective jacket waving paddles to guide it in. Mum sat, handbag balanced on her lap, and gazed at it. ‘Thom would love this,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t he love this, Bernard? I reckon he’d stand at that window all day.’

‘Well, he can come now, can’t he, now he’s just up the road? Treena could bring him here at the weekend. I might come too if the beer’s any good.’

‘It’s lovely what you’ve done, letting them come and stay in your flat.’ Mum watched the plane disappear from view. ‘You know this will make all the difference to Treena, with her starting salary and all.’