We are standing at the bus stop, dad and I. The trunk was sent on ahead: that’s the only thing that makes any sense, even though sending your trunk on ahead is straight out of Jennings and Darbyshire. It must be a battered suitcase between us, that we used to take to the Isle of Wight on our holidays. Dad carried it on his head when we had to walk the three miles home from Hersham Station in 1966. I whined. Kevin kicked me. Mum lost her temper.

The bus comes. ‘Good luck, son,’ says dad, and slips me a tenner.

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