Culvercot on a quiet spring Sunday is nothing spectacular. The sea’s way too cold for swimming or even paddling (though you can in August and September, if you’re brave or under five) and there’s not much to do since Arnold Palmer Crazy Golf closed down, but there’s a cafe, and a fish and chip shop, the Spice Of The Sands Tandoori, of course, and not too many people, although enough to give it a bit of a buzz.

Grandpa Byron and I are on the small clifftop overlooking the main bay. A breeze from the sea is blowing his saffron robes about and there’s a strong, cool sun. On the sand are dog-walkers and dogs and a couple of brave families with deckchairs and thick pullovers. Grandpa Byron takes a deep breath of the wind, closes his eyes and smiles. Time to start my plan.

I try to say, dead casually, “Shall we, y’know, go and have a look at the old house?”

Of course, Grandpa Byron knows that I would want to do that, and isn’t fazed at all. You see, if I had been with Mum, she’d have said, “Oh Al, what do you want to do that for? That’s our old house. You don’t want to be reminding yourself of that. You’ve got to look forward …” and so on. She’d worry that I was “wallowing in the past” and getting all sad for Dad.

Grandpa Byron, on the other hand, just looks at me and winks. “Reckon you know the way?”

We walk up the alleyway from the seafront towards Chesterton Road, and past the jungle of scrubland where the foxes lived and we look at the house from across the road. All the time I’m thinking about how I’m going to get into the cellar to retrieve Alan Shearer without Grandpa Byron knowing. You know I said I’d Formulated a Plan? Well, to be honest it had some gaps in it.

“Still looks the same,” I say.

Grandpa Byron sniffs a bit disapprovingly. “Could do with a lick of paint.”

We cross the road for a closer look. “Doesn’t it seem a bit nosy?” I say.

Grandpa Byron gives a little laugh. “This is a public street and it’s just a house. We’re allowed to be looking!”

Just then, a lady comes out of the front door, and I tug at Grandpa Byron’s sleeve. “Come on,” I say urgently.

“Well, that really would look suspicious, wouldn’t it? As if we’re going to break in. Just say hello.” And true to his word, he calls a hearty, “Good morning, madam!” to the lady.

She looks at Grandpa Byron in his robes, and me in my jeans, and says, “Good morning,” a bit warily, if you ask me.

“My grandson used to live in this house. He wanted to see it again!”

She relaxes and smiles. “Oh yes! I remember you – my, haven’t you grown! How are you?”

“Fine, thanks,” and I smile a polite smile.

She’s sort of old-middle-aged, this lady, older than Mum but not as old as Grandpa Byron, and she’s got short, greyish hair and glasses like a teacher. She looks back at the house and pulls a face.

“We haven’t done much to it since we bought it,” she says. “It’s still exactly the same. But all that’s going to change.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yes, we’re putting in a conservatory at the back and that old garage is coming down to make way for an office for my husband.”

I feel as if the air has suddenly been forced from my chest.

“The … the garage?” I croak.

“Yes. Oh it’s such a mess. I expect you know all about the underground shelter.”

“Oh, er … yes. I think so.” I’m trying to sound unconcerned and casual, but I think I’m coming across as some sort of half-wit. Grandpa Byron’s looking at me like I’ve lost the plot.

“Well, we had a look down there a few weeks ago. I think your dad, rest his soul, was using it as an office. There were a couple of old computers down there and stuff, but still the old bunk beds, and a toilet. Quite remarkable.”

“But … but the entrance to it is still blocked up,” I say, then I have to add, lamely, “I suppose?”

The lady looks at me intently, and I compose my face into the blankest of innocent expressions. It seems to work.

“Yes. Well, we’ll have to clear it out again when we get started.”

Now I really want to know when this is, but I’ve already spoken too much so I’m keeping my mouth shut, and thank God for Grandpa Byron who says – out of polite interest, “When are you commencing the work?”

“Tomorrow or Tuesday. That’s when the men are scheduled to start. But you know what they’re like, these builders. Never one hundred per cent reliable, eh?” She and Grandpa Byron both chuckle at their shared familiarity with ‘feckless builders’.

“Anyway,” she says, brightly. “Got to go. Meeting my husband, nice to see you!” And she gets into the Skoda that’s in the driveway and drives off with a little wave.

As I take my hand out of my pocket to wave, a woollen glove falls to the ground, and it gives me an idea.