The girl behind the till doesn’t even have time to ask him what he fancies before George grabs two Scotch eggs, the last ones, and stuffs most of the first into his mouth. Ignoring the offer of a plate, he stomps over to the bench by the window and slumps into the seat. The window is cold at his back and he regrets giving the dog his cardigan.

Crumbs and egg and sausage meat cover his chin, like whiskers, and spill down his brown shirt. Till-girl has the audacity to bring him a cup of tea. She places it next to him carefully and backs away slowly. She’s scared of him and it makes him feel awful.

George wants her to call him a miserable old bastard. He wants to squash the raspberry tarts on the counter. Stick in his thumb and pull out a plum.

He wants to apologize but he can’t.

Instead he glares at the girl on the till from his spot in the window, kicking his sandalled foot loudly against the table leg. She ignores him and carries on sticking Jelly Tot eyes to gingerbread men. After a moment, she wipes her hands on her apron and brings over the bill and an envelope with his name on it.

Ellen’s handwriting knocks the wind from his sails and his cheeks flame with remorse. She held this envelope. He brings it to his mouth and sniffs, pretends he can smell her roses. ‘Thank you,’ he whispers, and doesn’t know if he’s talking to the till-girl or to Ellen.