“I’m sorry as well, Alfie,” Jack said eventually, but his voice was so quiet it was hard to hear. I moved close and pulled up a chair. “You’ve been badly treated by our family, eh? First me, then John there and now that young good-for-nothing Inigo.”

“You…you have not told him, have you?” I said, a note of panic in my voice. “About my…age thing?” I looked between old Jack and John.

They both shook their heads, and I gave a relieved sigh.

“You get to your nineties, Alfie, and you have had a lot of time to reflect on things you could have done better. And by then you’re running out of time to put them right. Sometimes you can.” He stopped for a long, painful-sounding cough. “And sometimes all you can do is try to say sorry. I stole, I mocked you, I told people your secret. And I am very, very sorry.”

For several seconds, it was so quiet between the three of us that I felt I could almost touch the silence, and then a telephone bleeped shrilly from the office down the hall.

They were waiting for me to say something, but I did not know what to say. Instead I gazed at Jack and—for just a moment—it was as though eighty-something years had not happened.

“What happened to Jean?” I asked him.

He gave a snuffled half-laugh. “Jean Palmer? Ha. Dumped me for a Polish sailor.”

I nodded slowly. He did not seem upset. Instead he started a wheezy laugh, but within it was the laugh of the young boy I had known. Suddenly I could see him in his big shorts, with his bony legs; I could see his hands, grimy from bicycle oil, digging into our shared bag of chips….

And then the image was gone and I was back in the clammy front room at Earl Grey House.

“Tell me, son,” he whispered, and I moved in even closer. “This…thing that you have. Is it…I don’t know…is it good? Do you like it?”

I do not think that anybody had ever asked me that, and I thought hard before answering.

“It was, I think. But not anymore. It hasn’t been good for a long time.”

He nodded. “Old age is no walk in the park, son,” he said. “But I thank the Lord every day that I’ve been granted the gift of growing old. Because I would not want your life, Alfie, my friend. Not in a thousand years.”

Do I want to be as old as him, though? I thought at that moment. And if Jack had not said what he said next, everything could be different.

He paused, and he was panting, as if the effort of speaking—even softly—was huge. He took a rasping breath. “Look at yourself. Listen to yourself, Alfie! If you know of a way to reverse whatever it is that’s wrong with you, so you can have real friends and a real life, then do yourself a favor, eh? I was your friend, once, I think. I hope. But now you need friends who will not…” He paused for breath. The tremor in his chin stopped and he looked straight at me. “Who will not leave you behind.”

“Thank you, Jack,” I said. I put my hand out to shake his, and he extended his thin hand in response. His handshake was gentle, but not weak, and I felt his papery skin move beneath my fingers. He smiled and his shoulders seemed to lose a little of their hunch, as though a weight had been lifted from them.

“There is one more thing…,” he began, but at that moment Sangeeta stuck her head round the door.

“Everything all right, Alfie?” She came into the room without waiting for an answer. “Are you going to introduce me, then?” She strode forward to John, hand extended. “Sangeeta Prasad, I’m Alfie’s social worker. And you are?”

“Ah, erm…hello. John McGonagal. This is my father, Jack. We…erm, we were friends of Hilda’s. Alfie’s mother. Just wanted to, you know, say hello to the young fellow.”

Sangeeta smiled but I was worried. How long had she been there? Was she listening at the door? Aunty Reet must have called her and told her that two old men were visiting me. I do not like this, I thought.

Whatever mood we had had in that stuffy lounge was now shattered completely. John said, “Come on, Dad. Probably time we were on our way.” He helped old Jack out of his chair. “Nice to meet you,” he said to Sangeeta, and old Jack said, “Cheerio.”

“I’ll see you out,” I said, and followed their slow progress to the front door, Sangeeta looking at me suspiciously.

In the hallway, John lowered his voice and said, “Is everything all right, son?”

I nodded. Everything was not all right, of course, but I couldn’t say that to him. Not with Sangeeta close by. Then Jack reached into his jacket pocket and brought out something wrapped in a carrier bag, which he gave to me with a quivering hand.

“It’s time you got this back, Alfie,” he said with a smile. Inside was my copy of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens.

“Thank you!” I said.

“Good luck, Alfie. You were a good friend. I wish I’d been a better one.”

And with that, Jack and John made their way carefully down the worn steps and into John’s car that was parked on the seafront street.

I turned away from the door, and Sangeeta was standing in the hallway, arms folded, watching.