Before I can object, Pye has left the tech lab and I’m jogging to keep up with him.

“My house isn’t far,” he says.

“We’re going to your house?”

“Yeah. Why? What’s wrong?” He must be able to read the expression on my face.

“Um … nothing,” I say with exaggerated casualness. “No, nothing at all. Excellent. Great.” I’ve overdone it a bit, and Pye’s brow creases with puzzlement, but he doesn’t say anything.

We’re outside the school by now, and Pye’s putting the key back in the brick hole. The warm, fresh breeze of earlier on has gone and it feels like another storm is coming. The air is so sticky you can almost taste it, and the sky has turned into a dark grey blanket making everything feel close.

Pye and I haven’t said anything for a few minutes, which feels strange, so I break the silence by saying, “Is your dad going to be there? Or your mum?” I add quickly, because that would be the normal thing to say.

This, you’ll have guessed, is what’s worrying me. The prospect of meeting Grandpa Byron is making me sick with anxiety and I’m also a bit excited. It’s exactly the same feeling I had before I went on the Vampire ride at Chessington World of Adventures that time with Mum and Steve: truly terrified, but looking forward to it at the same time. Pye is striding ahead.

“No, my mum’s dead. My dad’s there, but he was still in bed when I left. He’s working lates. And my sister.”

“Your sister?” It’s true: I had completely forgotten about Aunty Hypatia, which is hardly surprising as she is barely ever mentioned at home and I have met her only that once when she wafted into Dad’s funeral preceded by a cloud of heavy perfume.

“Yeah, she’s completely annoying, but don’t worry: she won’t disturb us. She’s only five. I’m not really supposed to leave the house if Dad’s asleep but she’s watching telly and, to be honest, she’d stay there watching it even if it was only the test card.”

“The what?”

“The test card. You know – little girl, noughts and crosses, toy clown.”

“Oh. Yeah.” I have exactly no idea what Pye is on about, but it doesn’t really matter because he’s still talking.

“We just got a colour telly a few weeks ago. I must have been the last kid in Britain to know that football teams had different coloured kits.”

I stare at Pye in astonishment. He looks at me out the side of his eyes, smiles slowly and points an accusing finger at me. “Kidding! Well, not about the colour telly. That is pretty new. Like, I bet you’ve got one, yeah?”

“Sure.” To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever seen TV pictures that aren’t in colour, apart from the old films that Mum likes but I don’t, except for one with Marilyn Monroe and two guys who dressed up as ladies which was totally hilarious. Anyway, Pye’s still chattering on as we turn the corner.

“So what’s your favourite programme, Al?”

This is tricky. I don’t know any TV programmes from the 80s, so I mumble, “Dunno, really. I don’t watch much TV to be honest.”

“That’s like my dad. He only watches quiz shows. Mastermind is his favourite. I keep telling him—”

I’m so relieved to hear a title that I know that I interrupt Pye. “Oh, yeah – I like that one!”

He comes back at me with the programme’s catchphrase:

“‘I’ve started so I’ll finish!’ I keep telling him he should enter, but he says, ‘Nah, man – telly’s for watchin’ not bein’ on’,” and Pye wobbles his head, and the whole impression of Grandpa Byron – the Geordie-Indian accent, the head-wobble – is so amazingly accurate that I give a delighted shout of laughter and say, “That’s exactly like him! Probably!”

We’ve stopped outside a small house in Sandview Avenue, a long street of tiny semi-detached houses leading down to the beach. Wind chimes are hanging from the little porch and they ping and pong in the breeze, which has been getting stronger, bringing a few fat drops of rain.

“C’mon – let’s go in before we get soaked.”

We go in the back door that’s up the side of the house, which opens into the kitchen, and there he is, wearing gold-coloured pyjama bottoms. His slim, tan back is towards us because he’s washing something in the sink, and there’s his long plait of hair – not white like I’m used to, but silky black.

I just stand there for while, my throat so tight that I can’t swallow. I glance around the kitchen, and it’s just like everything I’m used to with him: there’s loads of stuff, things, knick-knacks and whatnots – a souvenir mug, a picture calendar, a tiny glass model of the Buddha – but somehow everything is neat: it doesn’t look cluttered, or messy or dirty, it’s just … him.

There’s a door leading to the hallway and a tiny girl with huge brown eyes looks up at me then scuttles away towards the sound of a television in the front room.

And then he turns to face us, wiping his hands, and gives a big grin and I can see his gold tooth, and he’s exactly the same, only a bit less lined in the face (but only a bit). When I see his smile, it takes all of my effort not to go up to him and give him a huge hug, and smell his smell, but I realise that would be weird, so instead I just smile like an idiot.

“Why, hello, bonny lad! Who’s this? Ye’ve found yer long-lost twin, have ye?” Grandpa Byron is looking at my face really closely, but he hasn’t stopped grinning so I’m feeling a bit more relaxed.

“Daddy-ji – this is Al. He’s starting at our school next term.”

“Hello, Al, how ye deein’?” He puts out his right hand and I clasp it eagerly. It’s the next best thing to a hug, and I pump his hand up and down. As I do, it hits me: this is Grandpa Byron’s right hand. The bad one, on the end of his twisted, useless arm. Except it’s fine: a strong hand, and a straight, healthy arm.

“Very well, thank you, Mr Chaudhury, very well.” I’m almost laughing, I’m so happy, but that would be weird as well.

“Ah man – you can call me Byron. Everyone else does. Can I … can I have me hand back? That’s some grip you’ve got there, bonny lad.” I let him go, reluctantly. He’s peering at me again.

“You’ve got a touch of the tar-brush in you, son – where are your folks from?”

“My dad’s from Punjab. Originally.” I’m nervous where this is headed, but I’m trying to look relaxed.

“Get away! Me too. Tuhanu Panjabi aundi he?”

Now, I know enough to understand that this means, ‘Do you speak Punjabi?’

“Not really,” I say. “We speak English at home. My mum’s Scottish.”

Grandpa Byron smiles and nods. “What’s your last name?”

“Singh.”

“OK. Well, you’re not a Sikh Singh otherwise you’d have a turban. So what are you?”

This is something I hadn’t anticipated. What could he mean, ‘What am I?’ I’m sort of gawping, trying to think what to say, when he helps me out.

“You know – your dad. Is he Rajput, Yadav, Maratha …”

I guess that these are some sort of Indian clans and I pick one at random. “Erm … Maratha?” Grandpa Byron looks upwards in the expression I recognise as he tries to retrieve something from his Memory Palace.

“OK … OK … Maratha Singhs, from … Bahawalpur? You’ll be descended somehow from Dhani Ram Singh, the great Punjabi poet, who died in 1924, who had ten children, called Rani, Raj …”

This is just like listening to Grandpa Byron when he was playing along with the TV quizzes and I start laughing out loud. But Pye puts a stop to it.

“Dad!”

That’s all it takes. Grandpa Byron stops mid-sentence, and his gaze return to us. He looks a bit embarrassed. “Sorry,” he says with a half-smile. Pye is rolling his eyes, but smiling at the same time.

“He’s always doing that – showing off his memory!”

“That’s all right,” I say. “Who won the Wimbledon men’s singles in 1967?”

Without hesitating: “John Newcombe from Australia beat Wilhelm Bungert from Germany in straight sets. And at Wimbledon they call it the ‘gentlemen’s’ singles. Pye been tellin’ you about my memory, has he?”

Pye hasn’t said anything to me about Grandpa Byron’s memory, but I nod yes in reply because I know it will please him. Pye frowns at me, though.

Oops.

But then, I’m saved from any further quizzing on my fictitious family background and my unlikely knowledge of Grandpa Byron’s memory by a piercing scream.