I’d saved his father’s Jaguar, a silver XJS. Had it serviced every six months. A Greek man would come to us early from the garage and drive it away until evening. But David didn’t want it. Wouldn’t even sit in it. Preferred public transport to his own father’s car.” Helen crunches her toast. For the second time this week, she’s eating in the kitchen. “I gave my son a hard time about that bloody car. It’s like he didn’t want to know his own father.”
