Tap-tap-tap-click, and there’s the clubhouse and the opening hours and the greens. And despite what the Daily Mail says, no sign of anything that would make Enid blush.

‘Anyway, Dad, it’s worth considering,’ George says.

I decide there and then. ‘No need! I’m going to get one.’

George turns his head from the screen to look at me and he smiles; surprised but pleased. He’s a good-looking lad. ‘That was a lot easier than I expected,’ he says. ‘We’ll get you an Internet connection and you’re sorted.’

‘I’ve decided to take up new things,’ I explain to him.

He smiles again. ‘Good for you. It’s never too late to learn.’

I know what Enid would say.

Without Enid I have no motivation to do anything. The dishes pile up and the dust gathers. I work my way through the tins in the cupboard. Oxtail soup, cream of tomato, minestrone, peaches in syrup, garden peas, baked beans, fruit salad.

Next day, Betty comes round with Mercia. Betty’s tall and wearing a beige hooded raincoat. Mercia’s short and wearing a blue cagoule with the hood up; it’s tied tightly around her face.

‘Going hiking?’

‘Keeping my hair dry,’ she says, unpicking the cord under her chin. ‘Just had it done.’

I’m a widower with two blondes at my door. Not bad for an 85-year-old. Enid wouldn’t dye her hair. Left it as God intended and it was as white as mine at the end. It’s unlucky for Betty and Mercia that Enid’s gone first, because come Judgement Day she’ll make sure Betty and Mercia have their trumpets taken from them for the sin of vanity, which she deplored.

‘Come in,’ I say and they follow me into the hall.

‘How are you? How are you really?’ Mercia asks me softly, tapping my arm.

I turn back to look at them. They’re full of kindness.

I’ve missed kindness, and suddenly terror and loneliness fill me. ‘Would either of you marry me?’ I plead. Then I start to bark. I can’t call it crying. The noise blares out of my chest and takes all of my energy away. I fall to my knees. I can’t stand.

‘It’s the shock,’ Mercia says.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Betty says, hurrying to the kitchen. ‘It’s hit him hard.’

‘Find some brandy, Betty,’ Mercia calls after her.

I run out of air and raise my head to suck it in. Bark it out again hoarsely. Ashamed of the noise. Grief possessing me. On my knees and too old to get up. Too old to cope. I roll sideways, a commando roll, coming to rest against the cold wall.

Mercia bends over me with a glass. ‘Sit up, Kim.’

Rocking.

Holding my knees and rocking.

Moaning and sighing. Ah, me.