‘Even those of us who are moronically stupid have our clever moments,’ he riposted.

‘Oh, don’t be smug.’

His gift to her was a small bottle of expensive perfume, one he’d bought for her in the past. He had thought it a safe present, but suddenly it seemed intimate enough to draw down her disapproval. But she only thanked him with an impersonal smile and said nothing more. He found himself strangely relieved, almost as though he’d been afraid.

Her gift to him had been as impersonal as her smile-a scarf of very fine cashmere, beautiful but meaningless. It told him nothing beyond the fact that she wanted the children to see them being friendly.

The present-giving was nearly over and there were only a few small items left around the base of the tree.

Alex found himself studying them in hope, but none seemed exactly right. The severity of his disappointment shocked him. He was grown up, for Pete’s sake! Grown-ups didn’t get upset because the right gift wasn’t under the tree.

Yet for a moment he was a child again, fighting back the tears because Mum had bought the wrong book and shrugged the mistake aside with, ‘Oh, well, it’s the same thing, really, isn’t it?’ And he couldn’t explain that it wasn’t the same thing at all because she had more important things to worry about than his feelings.

Then he saw his son gradually easing something out from behind an armchair, and relief swept him.

‘This is yours,’ Bobby said, holding out the brightly wrapped parcel.

‘Thank you, son.’

Alex unwrapped it slowly, revealing the picture inside-a water-colour of the happy family sitting by the river. As he gazed at it he became aware of his son watching him, full of tension, waiting for what he would say.

‘It’s beautiful, son. Did you do it?’

‘Yes, I painted it myself.’

‘But how do you recall that day? You were only five years old.’