‘You put a little too much milk in,’ she said, setting down the rose-patterned cup. ‘Milk’s very expensive now, Seymour. I don’t want you getting into the habit of drowning your breakfast cereal in it, either, like you did yesterday. Your father probably lets you get into spendthrift habits like that when you stay with him, but that’s beside the point. Oh, and your mattress, that’s another thing. It’s got to be turned every day without fail when you make your bed. I notice you didn’t do it yesterday. And that little mat by your bed—remember to shake it out every morning and hang it over the clothesline, but don’t go putting a peg in the middle where it’ll leave a mark.’

Seymour nodded resignedly at each instruction and finally she reached for her dressing-gown, folded as stiffly as an ironing board across the end of her bed, and he was free to escape. Only you couldn’t really call it escape—there wasn’t really any private space in that tiny house. He had a quick shower, because three minutes was the time limit Thelma had stipulated, then put on a clean shirt, jeans and the hated leather sandals she was making him wear because she said gym shoes were unhygienic in the middle of summer. He attended to his bed and went outside to hang up the mat.

Thelma’s back garden reflected the immaculate tidiness of the house. Even the grass blades on the patch of lawn seemed to grow slantwise in the same direction. A pebbled concrete path led to the gate in the alleyway fence, pointlessly, for the gate was never opened. It had strong bolts at the top and bottom, and also a padlock for extra security. Thelma wouldn’t dream of setting foot in the alleyway. Her house faced on to Victoria Road, which was respectable, but the houses on the far side of the alley belonged to Sparrow Street, which in her opinion definitely was not. There were no flower beds, just a line of papery hydrangeas, a pallid grey-blue like old school socks. The rubbish bin had Thelma’s house number stencilled on its side in big letters, like a threat of legal action if anyone dared steal it. Seymour felt depressed, looking around at the so-called garden.

Thelma summoned him for breakfast and watched keenly while he poured milk over his Cornflakes. ‘Tonight I might be a bit late,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a chiropody appointment straight after work, so round about five-thirty you could make yourself useful. Peel some potatoes and put them on to simmer. You can make sandwiches for your lunch, there’s cheese and tomatoes in the fridge.’

‘Thanks, that’ll do fine,’ Seymour said, though he detested cheese and tomato sandwiches.