I was living with Gram when Mum died, though I don’t really remember much, as I think I have said – I was only three.

‘Your mum always wanted the best for you,’ says Dad. ‘She wasn’t able to look after you properly – not with the touring and the recording, and, well, you know …’

I don’t know. Not really.

‘So having me around was … what? Inconvenient?’

Dad looks hurt, and I know I have touched a nerve. ‘Try “impossible”. The life we were living wasn’t exactly suitable for a little girl.’

‘So why not change your life?’

Dad gives a small grunt of laughter. ‘That’s what your gran said. She loved your mum’s success, but she hated the world she was in – entertainment, show business, music. People who were jealous of everything; people who will cheat you. You’ve got to be strong to survive it. I think your gran blamed herself because your mum wasn’t stronger.’

‘That’s crazy.’

‘Maybe. But we’re all a little bit crazy. If we weren’t, how boring would life be?’

We’re still in Gram’s room, and as Dad speaks he keeps taking out cuttings and pictures from the tin and turning them over in his hands. He comes to the one of me in the rain with Mum and just stares at it.

‘They said she was a drunk. A drug addict,’ I say.

‘No,’ says Dad. ‘Not your mum. Oh, everyone said that, and – well, she sailed pretty close to the wind. But after you were born? She cleaned herself up pretty good.’

‘So how did she die, then?’

‘Heart attack. That’s what the doctors said. I think, to be perfectly honest, she was pretty weak, physically. But do you know the expression “mud sticks”?’

‘Get a bad reputation and it stays with you?’

‘That’s it, spot on. And she wasn’t helped by the one person who could have helped her.’ He has picked up the card with the message to Gram: the one with the lighthouse on it and the message saying, If it all goes wrong please take Boo far away from all of this.

‘Who was that?’ I am so hoping he will not say Gram. I couldn’t bear it if he blames Gram.

‘Me. I was messed up. I was pathetic and lost and completely incapable of bringing up a little girl. I mean, I tried. I told the judge that I would provide for you and give up the music business, but I turned up to court drunk, and that was it. Your gran, God bless her, did exactly what she promised your mum she would do. She took you far away, gave you a new name, a new home, a new history.’

This is all coming a bit fast, I have to say. I’m not sure I like it, but I need to keep listening. Dad’s voice is soft and reassuring. It’s what he’s saying that is not soft and not reassuring.

‘Gram chose my name?’ I say.

He looks at me. ‘Come on, do I look like the sort of guy who’d call a kid Ethel?’ And then a shy half-smile comes onto his mouth, and I get that he is testing me, and I grin.

‘Not really.’ I look at his ordinary clothes and his neat hair. ‘But then you don’t look like the sort of guy who’d call a kid Tiger Pussycat. Not any more, anyway.’

He smiles, and it turns into an embarrassed half-grin. ‘You got me,’ he says.

‘So what am I meant to call myself now?’ I say.

‘You can be any name you want. Me and your mum? We always called you Boo – like on this card.’ He holds it up. ‘After the girl in Monsters, Inc. Your mum loved that film.’

‘Me too,’ I say. ‘As a name, though … it’s all a bit, I dunno … showbiz. Isn’t it?’

He laughs. ‘Yup. Lost in showbiz, we were! I prefer Ethel, now.’

‘Really?’

He looks at me closely, through my sunglasses. ‘Really, I do.’

This is nice to hear, but I’m not letting him off the hook.

‘And now? Why do you turn up now?’

There is the longest pause. So long that I wonder if Dad has heard my question.

‘Dad?’

He turns to me and nods. ‘I heard you. I’m just not sure that my answer will be good enough.’

‘Try me.’

‘I was scared. Scared you’d hate me; scared you’d blame me. Once I got myself straightened out, it became clear to me how I’d let you down. I figured you must be better off without me, and besides, your gram had done such a good job that you weren’t exactly easy to find.’

‘So how did you find me?’

‘You know what, Ethel. I think there’s someone who can explain that better than me. But we’re going to have to go out.’

He stands up, and takes another piece of chewing gum from the packet. That’s when I notice: it’s nicotine gum, used by people to help them stop smoking. I look at Dad’s fingers: the yellow stains are much fainter, and he no longer smells of old cigarettes.

‘You’ve stopped smoking,’ I say.

‘Doing my best,’ is all he says, and he starts chewing again.

I stand up too. ‘So where are we going?’

‘To see your great-gran,’ he says.