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Dad any room and he’d be off after wild geese with a loud cry of pleasure, and have me following behind. ‘Don’t, Dad.’
    â€˜Don’t what?’
    â€˜Don’t fantasize. Lightoller’s just an ordinary shopkeeper trying to make an honest profit.’
    He stopped buttering his toast so great was his incredulity. ‘What an oaf you are, Lance.’
    â€˜Am I?’
    The buttering resumed with twice as much energy before he put the knife down and reached for the marmalade. ‘Where’s the spoon?’
    â€˜Use your knife.’
    This produced a sad shake of the head. ‘An oaf and a slob,’ he commented as he stood up to fetch a spoon from the cutlery drawer.
    â€˜Thanks.’
    He sat back down and showed me how a refined and civilized man behaved when faced with transferring marmalade from jar to toast. ‘He’s taken against me, Lance. I can’t help that. They started it, but I’m damned if I’m going to lie down and take it.’
    â€˜You did accuse him of killing his wife.’
    He dismissed this as only my father could. ‘A perfectly understandable mistake. They’d had some sort of argument and then, suddenly, she’s not there any more. No explanation, no nothing.’ It occurred to me that there was no reason why Dad should have been given an explanation, but I said nothing for he continued, ‘It was a real humdinger of a row, too. I had to bang repeatedly on the wall to get them to shut up.’
    Gently, I said, ‘I’m sure that your motives were beyond reproach, but can’t you see that in the aftermath of the accusation there is going to be a tincy-wincy bit of resentment on his part?’
    â€˜An innocent man has nothing to fear,’ he proclaimed pompously.
    â€˜Fear and feeling pissed off that your neighbour’s accused you of murder are two different things.’
    He ignored this. ‘He was the one who notched things up by taking out that claim that my fence was on his property. He should have left things as they were.’
    I asked with considerable trepidation, ‘Out of interest, is the fence on his property?’
    He had got up to fetch some more toast from the toaster so his back was to me as he replied, but I could see even from this disadvantageous view that he was wishing I hadn’t asked. ‘It’s very complicated,’ was his only response.
    For a while, he chewed toast and I drank tea and there was no more said on the subject, but I couldn’t let it lie.
    â€˜You ought to make an effort to repair the relationship. No good will come of the affair if you don’t.’
    He was outraged. ‘Me?’ he demanded, or rather squeaked.
    â€˜Yes. You. You’re the professional, the pillar of the community.’
    He sat back in the chair, staring at me, knife in hand and fleck of marmalade in his beard; I wondered how many other flecks of marmalade had gone into that hairy wilderness over the years, never to be seen again; a jarful, perhaps? He pointed out, ‘I didn’t start it.’
    â€˜No, but you can be the one to finish it. At least talk to him, Dad. I’m not suggesting that you should take the blame—’
    â€˜You’d bloody well better not! The man’s a poltroon and a blackguard. I’ll be damned if I abase myself in front of such a milquetoast.’
    â€˜But you can at least suggest that you and he should put the past to one side and start again.’
    He relaxed, leaned forward and began ingesting more toast, his beard acting as a sort of safety net for wayward crumbs. Through the crumbs that had not escaped their fate and were being masticated in a most enthusiastic manner, he said, ‘He wouldn’t be interested, Lance. He’s only happy when he’s making trouble and having arguments.’
    My mug was emptied of tea and I stood up to put it in the sink. ‘All the same, I think you should