‘Hello,’ I say, when he answers the phone. ‘This is Ethel. Ethel Leatherhead.’

Long pause.

‘Does your gran know you’re calling me?’

‘Um … no.’

‘So how did you get my number?’

This was not how I had imagined it, to the extent that I had imagined it at all. I’d expected (hoped, perhaps) more of an ‘Oh my God, my long-lost daughter, it’s so good to hear your voice. My heart has ached every hour we have been apart …’

I wasn’t expecting a sort of interrogation.

‘Your number? It was stored in the phone’s memory.’

‘I see, and … Look, this is a bit awkward, you see …’

‘Are you my dad?’

I hear a sigh come down the phone. A long sigh that seems to contain ten years’ worth of regret.

‘Yes. And I’m sorry about—’

I cut him off. His apologies can come later.

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m in a hotel in Newcastle.’

‘How soon can you get here?’

‘Look, erm … Ethel. I’m not sure your gran—’

‘Dad. It’s an emergency. I really need you. Now. I’ll explain everything when you get here.’