A few weeks later, on a Saturday evening, I saw something I didn't expect.

Nigel Fairbrother was standing on the edge of the green in his tweed cap.

Josh and Sam Carter were playing football. And with them, in a little blue kit, was a small boy I'd never seen before.

Nigel's grandson, Oliver. Seven years old. Visiting for the summer.

Oliver had been standing at the edge of the green on his own, watching. Josh had seen him, run over, and asked if he wanted to play.

Now the three boys were tearing around the goalposts, shouting and laughing.

Nigel was watching them. He wasn't frowning. He wasn't writing anything on a clipboard. He was smiling.

Liam came out of his front door and stood next to him. They didn't speak for a while.

Then Nigel said, “Your boys are very kind.”

“They are,” said Liam.

“Oliver doesn't have many friends at home. He's shy.”

“He's not shy now,” said Liam.

Nigel was quiet for a long time.

“I wrote to Larkspur about your boys,” he said eventually. “Every week. For a year. I'm very sorry, Liam. I was a foolish old man.”

Liam looked at him. Then he held out his hand.

“Fancy a cup of tea?” he said.