After a moment, Lizzie feels a hand on her shoulder and turns to see Tess, who is so happy that Lizzie is sharing, opening up, she’s actually twitching with joy. Around her, the women start to hum, like energy-saving light bulbs. Not conversation, more like whales communicating across the sea, filling the room with pulses and gentle clicks. Orcas are as capable of feeling loss as humans. Some have been known to carry their dead calves on their snouts for days. They are Lizzie’s favourite creatures.

She says nothing, but everything has changed, and when she goes up to bed later that night, after staying behind to tidy up, she finds all the bracelets she helped the women make lying on her bed with tags that say, ‘For you, Lizzie’. They are all blue, for protection. They were listening to her after all.

George

(You are dead to me)

LETTER IN HAND, GEORGE marches out of the shed to find Betty, who’s singing ‘If I’d Known You Were Coming, I’d’ve Baked a Cake’ in the kitchen as she drops glacé cherries into scone mixture. She turns when she hears him approach.

‘Ah, there you are. I was—’ But whatever she was going to say is forgotten when he thrusts the letter into her chest.

‘Ah, about that …’ She wipes her hands on her pinny nervously.

‘About what, Betty?’ George is going to make her say it. He wants to hear her tell him she’s a liar.

‘Christ wept, George, how could I tell you? I didn’t even know you. I couldn’t just go to your house and tell you your wife was dying.’ Betty’s voice squeaks in panic, turkey neck flapping.

‘Yes. Yes, you fucking could have.’

‘You read the letter. She didn’t want me to. She didn’t want you to know.’

‘It wasn’t for her – or you – to decide to keep it from me. As if I’m a child, or deranged!’ George is on fire with rage. It’s burning him up.

‘George, she was doing what she thought best.’ Betty smooths out the letter, as if she’s about to start reading from it, but George can’t ever hear those words again. Never.

He snatches it back. ‘Did she pay you to go to my house and look after me?’

‘What?’ Betty looks horrified.

‘Did she pay you? Is that why you won’t take my money? Had you already had a lump sum off her, or just the sewing-machine? Where is it? Did you sell it?’

‘Christ on a bike! No, she didn’t pay me and I don’t want your money. You know that. I spend time with you because I want to, you thickwit.’