Betty decapitates the egg with a quick sweep of the knife and blows the steam away. George grits his teeth but lets her fuck about removing the ‘snot’ and lining up the soldiers neatly before hunger beats patience. ‘Enough!’ he says, pouring a pyramid of salt into the open brains of his egg, then very quietly adds, ‘You’re a good cook.’

Her hand wobbles slightly at the compliment. He knows she’s pleased because after lunch she serves him lemon drizzle cake just out of the oven.

‘This was supposed to be for afternoon tea, not lunch.’

‘Says who?’

‘Well … decorum?’

‘Bollocks. Give me the first slice.’ George munches away in bliss.

‘Good?’

The cake is warm and sweet, but tart. There are crunchy bits and moist bits and his tongue tingles with it all. He finishes it too soon and licks the plate. ‘Mmm. You know I have diabetes. Are you trying to kill me?’ George still can’t bring himself to say, ‘Thank you.’

‘You don’t have to eat it,’ Betty says, shovelling in a mouthful and spilling crumbs.

‘Say it, don’t spray it. I asked for the news, not the weather,’ George says, then winces at her barky laugh, hates that it warms him slightly each time he manages to coax it from her. She’s a tough crowd, Betty.

Ellen used to think George was hilarious. Once, he’d put on a hat she’d brought home from the church bring-and-buy sale. It was pink and had a ring of fake fruit round the rim. He’d said nothing, just walked in wearing it, sat down and started eating. Ellen had laughed so much she’d had to run off for a wee. ‘Oh, George,’ she’d gasped, wiping her eyes with a hankie, ‘you’ll be the death of me.’

‘Lovely table, this one,’ Betty calls from the kitchen, wiping it down after she’s cleared everything away. ‘Mine is broken. One of the leaves snapped. I overloaded it, re-covering the church’s hymn books.’

‘Oh,’ George says.

‘Hardly worth replacing now there’s only me.’

Ellen used to take her friends’ hands in hers when they said such things. She’d comfort strangers she saw crying in church. George mulls it over for a bit and decides mending Betty’s table is the perfect way to pay her back for all the cooking and cleaning (and dog-walking, tablet-collecting, sorting and doling-out) she does. He won’t even charge for his time, or tools, which is unheard of for George.

‘I’ll fix your table,’ he says abruptly. Even Lucky looks surprised. Poppy slinks off under the armchair with her worried face on. ‘No charge,’ he adds.

‘Strike me pink!’ Betty says. ‘How kind.’

‘No, it’s not. You cook for me. I’ll fix your table. I’ll do a bloody good job too.’

‘I wash your clothes for you as well,’ Betty says, smiling.