‘Bollocks. You spend time with me because my lying, dying wife begged you to.’ Oh, Ellen, how could you do this to me? thinks George, falling into a kitchen chair and wiping at his brow. How could you make such a fool of me?

He hears Betty putting the kettle on, no doubt thinking that’s the end of the row and a teabag will brew them back to the way they were before. She’s wrong.

‘This whole time, you’ve been coming to see me out of pity. Out of duty to my wife. I bet they’re all in on it. All of them up at the church. I bet you’re all laughing at me behind my back.’

‘George, no one is laughing at you, you great clot. People are just starting to like you! Father Anthony is so delighted with the allotment, he wants you to join the choir.’

‘I don’t care about being liked and Father fucking Agony can shove his choir up his arse. In fact, he can shove it up yours.’ George has found the energy to get to his feet and is reaching for his cap.

‘George, please sit down. You’ve gone all shiny. I was going to tell you about the letter. I just—’

‘Just what? When were you going to tell me?’

‘I don’t know. Soon.’

Poppy and Lucky, who have been watching from the corner until this point, their long noses going from George to Betty and back again, like tennis umpires, slink into the garden and cower behind the compost bin.

Back in the kitchen, Hurricane George rages on. ‘What stopped you? Did you want to see how far you could lead me up the fucking garden path?’

‘No, I didn’t. I enjoy your company. I don’t want to stop seeing you.’

‘Oh, God, you’re in love with me.’ Betty goes to protest, but George speaks over her. ‘You sad old windbag.’

Betty, who normally bats away his insults, looks hurt. Her eyes are glistening, and her fat cheeks are wobbling. Encouraged by this, George carries on. ‘I wouldn’t touch you with a barge pole.’