‘Of course not.’

‘Thank you.’ Irena smiled. ‘Now go and sit in warm while I finish make food.’

Amused that she was doing the same thing Maureen had always done – kicking him out of the kitchen when she was cooking – Frank said, ‘OK, I’ll get out of your way. I just wanted to see if you’d like any of these?’ He gestured toward the clothes on the table. ‘But don’t feel obliged to take them if you don’t like them.’

Irena reached for the baby-blue cardigan that was sitting on top of the pile and held it up against herself before putting it back down.

‘Is very beautiful, but is too expensive for someone like me.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Frank argued, saddened to think that her self-esteem was so low she didn’t consider herself deserving of nice things. ‘I want you to have it – and Maureen would, too. It’s only going to go to the charity shop if you don’t take it, and someone’ll end up getting it for a couple of quid, so it’s not that expensive if you look at it like that.’

‘I do like very much,’ Irena said, touching the soft material again.

‘Then it’s yours,’ Frank said, pleased that she liked it because it had been one of Maureen’s favourites. ‘There’s another five bags upstairs if you want to have a root through them, as well. But they’re all bigger, so they might not fit you.’

‘These are enough,’ Irena said. ‘Now go,’ she shooed him toward the door. ‘I need finish cook.’

The meal was every bit as delicious as it smelled, and Frank guiltily admitted – to himself, but not to Irena – that it was as good, if not better, than anything Maureen had ever made for him. When they’d finished eating, Frank washed the dishes and Irena dried them, and then they moved into the living room and settled in front of the TV; Frank drinking his whisky, while Irena finished the bottle of wine he’d opened for her the previous night.

A storm had rolled steadily in during the evening, and by midnight, when they decided to head up to bed, gale-force winds were battering the farmhouse from all sides. After two decades of living through these extreme weather snaps, Frank had no trouble falling asleep with the wind howling down the chimney and the windows rattling violently in their frames. Tonight was no exception, and he dropped off as soon as his head hit the pillow, only to be woken a short time later by the sound of crying coming through the wall. Guessing that Irena must have been spooked by the storm, he got up and pulled his dressing gown on before padding down the landing and tapping on her door.

‘Are you OK, love?’ he asked through the wood.

‘No,’ she whimpered.