ELLEN’S STUFF IS GONE. The village is full of fags. It’s been five days and Betty still hasn’t contacted him. He wants to go round and shout at her again, but he told himself she was dead to him and you don’t come back from the dead. Not even through letters.

George doesn’t know what to do with himself. He can see Ellen’s face in his head and she looks disappointed by the way he behaved in the charity shop, and disappointing someone is so much worse than making them angry. Especially Ellen.

He tried to do a nice thing – getting her stuff back – and all she can do is judge him from beyond the grave. He stands in the spare room with her Singer sewing-machine, where her other things should be. With them all gone, it’s like she was never here at all. Now, more than ever, George needs something solid of hers to cling to. Her parrot umbrella would have been perfect.

He was so upset that he had left without looking at the shoes and hats. How could he have stayed, though, after what he’d said? That tall man had looked like he was about to punch him, and the smaller one seemed close to tears. George is worried he may be charged with assault. Can you be arrested for trying to steal a scarf? All he could do was mutter that he’d be ‘complaining about this’ and march out, emptier-handed than he’d gone in.

‘Bollocks,’ George says to Poppy, when he realizes that what happened will get back to Betty. She’s going to know what he said and he feels so awful he wants to be sick. ‘Fuck it,’ he says then, and Poppy wags her tail in approval, having no idea what ‘fuck it’ means, but George sounds assertive again, which is good and might lead to a walk.

They don’t go for a walk, though. Instead George gathers all of Ellen’s letters, takes them to the shed, ties them together with twine, then puts them under his bed with his money stash. But what should he do next? He could go to the shop and buy himself some beer or whisky, but the manager in the off-licence looks a bit fruity and he’s probably got a wanted poster with George’s face on it up already.

He could go to the allotment and dig up the bulbs. Set fire to the ground and watch all his hard work turn into ash, but he likes those fucking bulbs, those trenches. He’ll wait until his crops are ready to eat, then take them all home for himself. Fuck the church, the liars.