Betty is looking at George’s damp pyjamas and trying not to smile. George hates her more in that second than he’s ever hated Barbara. ‘No, “we” fucking haven’t. I spilled the water you brought, which I never asked for.’

‘Crikey O’Reilly, you are a Gloomy Gus when you wake up. I’m just waiting for the washing-machine to finish. Then I’ve got to go and pick up a lasagne the church ladies have made you in their cooking session.’

‘I don’t eat foreign shite. I don’t go to fucking church and I don’t want your help.’ George is so cross he gets back into bed and pulls the covers up as high as they’ll go.

‘Well, I’ll eat the lasagne, then. You can have one of the meals I found in the freezer. Strike a light, your Ellen was some woman. And weren’t you a spoiled lad? It’s going to be a big adjustment, looking after yourself. Like she said, though, time to pull your socks up.’

‘Don’t you go reading her fucking letters. Don’t snoop round my home. Take your do-goodery and arse like a bag of custard out of my house and don’t come back.’ As the curses roll off his dry lips, George realizes he’s feeling better than he has in days.

As she’s walking out of the door, Betty-the-battleaxe tuts and says, ‘I took your lovely dog out earlier. Such a poppet.’

‘Take her. Take her and never come back.’

Poppy barks then, as if she’s heard and is hurt. George can see her sad little face in his mind and pulls the covers so high that only his Humpty Dumpty head pokes out. He listens for the slam of the front door, but instead he hears the click of the kettle and she’s back moments later, pulling down the blanket he’s hiding under, a cup of tea in hand and the dog under her arm. ‘Here you go then, a nice cup of tea. Just what the doctor ordered.’ She drops the dog onto the bed and puts the teacup just out of reach. Poppy, who has never been on a bed before, is slightly nervous of the uneven terrain. Her paws get caught up in the orange waffle blanket and she growls at it, digging her claws into the wool.

‘Hey. Pack that in!’