The knowledge makes him angry. He curses and Poppy hides under his chair. Her trembling body, the idea that he would hurt her, makes him even angrier. He smashes Ellen’s favourite fish plate, holds it high in the air and watches it shatter. Then he picks up each splinter of smashed china carefully, using his magnifying-glass so there’s no danger of one piercing Poppy’s paws, and the acknowledgement that he cares about the dog exhausts him. She creeps out from under the chair and crawls into his outstretched arms. They sleep in his armchair, and when he wakes, he decides to go to the shop for bread and beer.

Before he leaves, he throws his old patched-elbow cardigan over Poppy. ‘See you soon,’ he tells her, then, ‘I’ll bring you back some ham.’

He refuses to acknowledge anyone who says hello to him in the local shop. Instead he clicks his fingers at the spotty youth behind the till. ‘Oi, you. Serve me.’

The boy stutters and presses the bell for his manager, who knew Ellen and therefore George. When the man arrives, he whispers something in the boy’s ear, then approaches George carefully with a bright smile and hands held high in surrender. ‘Hello, George, what can I help you with?’ What George wants is a row. He wants to shout, ‘Cunt!’ loudly and shock old ladies. He wants to swipe packets of cereal off the shelves and stamp on them, sling eggs at the windows and pour milk in crevices where it will dry and leave a sickly odour. He wants to make people hurt.

But the manager just smiles at him in a way that promises no resistance. He’ll help George, and then later in the staffroom he’ll say to the spotty boy from the till, ‘Poor old dear lost his wife. He’s probably going a bit senile too. If he comes in again, let me deal with him.’

It won’t do. George doesn’t want pity, he wants a fucking war. He wants to throw bags of flour, like grenades from trenches. He wants to smash bottles and see blood. He wants to leave the shop the way he has been left. Broken.

He wants the manager to punch him and stop his pain. He won’t, though. He’ll call the police or the doctor instead, then firm hands and firm voices will restrain George; he’ll piss himself in the street and people will swim past him on floats of pity.

Outside, he scans the street for where to go next and sees the bakery. Before he can think better of it, he marches in, stumbling slightly on the step.