The bedside table with a little dip the size of her water glass. ‘That way it won’t spill in the night, when you fumble around for the light.’ The bureau with all its slots and the leather-topped desk that slid down on silent hinges: ‘For all those letters you love writing for the church.’ The first thing she had written was a thank-you card, tucked between two jam tarts, still warm.

Betty calls George in for lunch. She’s made him a cheese, ham and pickle sandwich. A huge mug of tea sits next to it. George has pissed more since he met Betty than he has in years. The sandwich is too big to fit in his mouth, just as a proper sandwich should be.

‘It’s a beautiful day,’ Betty says, as she bites into her own doorstop. ‘I thought we’d take the dogs for a romp.’

‘Nope.’

‘Blooming Nora, George!’ Betty puts down the sandwich. ‘You need to walk your dog and you also need to lose weight.’

‘How’s that going to happen with you stuffing me to the gills with sandwiches?’ George scoffs.

‘You can walk them off, nitwit. It would be good for you. We could try stick walking.’

‘You can stick your walking up your arse. I know what’s good for me.’

‘Really? That’s why I found you in a chair, is it? Unable even to speak.’ Betty has never before mentioned what happened the first day they met. George didn’t know what he’d do if she did. He does now. He jumps up from the table and grabs his coat.

‘Don’t strop off, dunderhead. Sit down.’ Betty tuts and pours more tea.

‘So you can feed me, then call me fat and tell me what to do? Not bloody likely. I never—’

‘—asked me to butt in. Heavens to Betsy, don’t I know it. You tell me that all the time. I just thought a walk might be fun.’ Betty adds two lumps of sugar to her cup and stirs, tapping the teaspoon on the side. She treats George like a naughty schoolboy and makes him act like one.

‘Fun?’ George loads the word with scorn.

‘Yes, fun. I need to go into the village anyway. I thought I might make a curry.’ Betty gets up to rifle through her cupboards, muttering about spices.

‘Disgusting stuff. Shouldn’t be allowed.’ George is still standing and holding his coat, but his hot air has cooled, and he wants to sit down and drink his tea before it gets cold, too. Poppy doesn’t know if she’s coming or going. She looks at Lucky, whose gaze flits between the coat in one of George’s hands and the cup of tea in the other. Lucky sits down and scratches an ear, like he’s trying to work it out.