Sam Miller, a journalist and author, is the son of Karl Miller, the much-admired literary editor and grand man of letters.
The pair enjoyed a close relationship, with a shared love of books, football and teasing jokes. But after his father’s death, the son became compelled to explore the great unspoken half-secret of his life: his biological father was not actually Karl, but Karl’s great, late friend Tony White.
Somehow, the three adults in this triangle managed to accommodate the fact of Sam’s paternity with marriage and friendships intact – largely, it often seems, by talking about football instead.
In this book, Sam reminisces fondly about Karl’s last months, and researches more of Tony’s peripatetic and free-loving life.
It’s an interesting tale, albeit rather coyly structured, and you do wonder if it would have found a publisher without the element of literary celebrity.
But what strikes most is that – despite all the photos and memories and eyewitness testimony the author uncovers – there is virtually no evidence of what Sam meant to his biological father, leaving an aching absence at the book’s heart.
