‘I found him like this when I arrived this morning. He must have been here a while, if the smell is anything to go by. I’m Betty Keller, head of the Neighbourhood Watch. You know me already, of course. We’ve had sixteen complaints about his dog barking. If that doesn’t beat the band! The postman had tins of Spam thrown at him. Imagine! And he’s a vegetarian. I’d have come round sooner, but I’ve been helping gather donations for the refugees in Calais. Dreadful business.’

George has to strain to hear the next part as the old cow is whispering.

‘He’s known to be rather crotchety, but I’m not scared of the old blockhead. I’ll just give him a prod in the right direction. Jesus wept, I nursed my Bill for three years before the cancer took him. Well, you remember, Doctor. Now, let me think, tea with no sugar and a dash of milk, semi-skimmed, am I right? Partial to a slice of cake at about three thirty. Nasty business. The cancer, I mean, not the cake. I bet you’ve missed my brews …’

Maybe George is dying. Maybe he’s already dead and living in Hell, being looked after by a gasbag who helps dirty immigrants and wants to see him naked. He misses Ellen with a ferocity that voices itself as ‘Fuck off, you Nazi cunt,’ but then the energy leaves him and a clammy sleep claims him once more.

When he wakes, he’s in his bed at the back of the bungalow and the roaring in his ears turns out to be the vacuum cleaner. Looking down, he sees he’s been put into some pyjamas that are too small for him and he’s not wearing any pants. He tries to get out of bed and knocks a glass of water off the Formica side table. ‘Shit.’

The vacuum cleaner stops. For a minute he forgets, then Betty appears, shattering his hopes with her tight curls and her shire-horse stomp. Ellen was so light-footed. If it weren’t for the fact she was always humming, she would’ve made him jump. But the lark ascending always preceded her arrival, as she swept in and out like the cello in ‘The Blue Danube’.

Ellen.

‘Welcome back! We were almost worried about you. Hadn’t you got yourself into a state? Well, never mind. The dashing doctor has fixed you up and told me which pills you need to take and when. You’ll be capital again before you know it. I found a very informative note from Ellen with the same instructions while I was cleaning the bathroom. I’ve put it next to your bed with all your tablets lined up. I – Oh dear, have we had a little accident?’