It is a recent tradition that our adult children spend the night back at home with us the day before they travel anywhere far away. As parents we may have a diminishing relevance in their lives, but we remain very handy for the airport. I hear the middle one pull the front door shut behind him at 5.45am on Saturday morning, off on a week-long business trip. When I next wake up it’s almost 9am, and the house seems emptier than ever. The day is cold and overcast. My wife is upstairs at her computer, working on something. In the afternoon, with no immediate plans, I lie on a sofa and read a book. My eyes are just beginning to roll back in my head when my phone rings. It’s my brother, face-timing me from Connecticut. He’s at the kitchen table in my father’s house, looking tired. “What’s going on?” I say. “It’s story time,” he says, spinning his phone round until my dad, sitting opposite him with a cup of coffee, is in the frame. My father, who is 102, is evidently in the middle of relating a memory from the olden days – something, I think, about the war. But by the time my brother gets the phone pointed at him he is stalled between thoughts, staring into the middle distance. This goes on for 20 seconds, then 30. I"ve never heard of the Leaches living in the house behind ours, but then realise it"s because they moved away some time in the 1930s “Um,” I say. “Anyway,” my brother says, spinning the phone back round. “You missed a fun tale. Something about bodies floating by in Japan.” “He wasn’t in Japan,” I say. “His brother,” my brother says. “So what’s happening there?” It’s still early morning in Connecticut, but I can tell from the sunlight streaming across the kitchen table that it’s shaping up to be a fine spring day. I tell my brother about the middle one’s work trip. “He should be landing in New Orleans about now,” I say. “What’s he doing there?” my brother says. “What am I, his manager?” I say. My brother spins the phone back to my dad, who remains lost in thought. “Say something interesting!” my brother shouts at my dad. “What?” says my dad, who is very, very deaf. “I said say something interesting!” my brother shouts, even louder. “Are you kidding?” my dad says, scowling and peering into the phone screen. “Who is that?” “It’s your son!” my brother says. “My son?” my dad says. “Your son in London,” my brother says. My father scowls again. “London?” he says. “Are they feeding you?” I shout. There is a long pause. “Is he the smart one?” my father says. “He wants to know if we’re feeding you!” my brother shouts. “YES,” I shout. “THE SMART ONE.” “Oh yeah, I’ve eaten,” my dad says. “At least he remembers that,” my brother says. One of my nephews wanders into the frame, waves, shows me his new retainer on command, and wanders off again. The phone turns back to focus on my dad. “Where am I right now?” he says. “You’re in your house!” my brother shouts. My father looks to his right, and his left, and out the kitchen window, and nods. “I like it,” he says. “That’s a relief,” I say. A bell rings. In the background I can just see the front door opening and my father’s carer silhouetted on the front step. “Who were the people who used to live in that big house behind?” my father says, pointing. “When?” says my brother. “They were called Leach,” my father says. “What a name,” I say. I have never heard of the Leaches. “Leach hated us,” my dad says, “because my brother and I always used to cut across his property.” This would explain why I’ve never met any Leaches: they moved away some time in the 1930s. My brother spins his phone back so his own head fills the frame. “So if you were thinking about visiting …” he says, implying, as always, that I should not wait. “Yeah,” I say. “I think I should have time in the summer.” “What about your sons?” my sister-in-law says as she walks past the phone screen. “Their cousins want to see them.” “Possibly,” I say. “They lead busy lives.” “I think he might have been the smartest one,” my father says. “I think they gave him some kind of a test.”