George is under the bed, swearing. He crawls out to wipe his brow and notices that, apart from the bed and a wardrobe, the room is empty. He wonders what Betty has done with her husband’s clothes and belongings. George has an irrational urge to search her attic for proof the man ever existed.

George thinks of his spare room, packed full of Ellen’s clothes and shoes, her hats and best coat. Her half-finished art projects and the hideous china dogs she used to collect. He thinks of giving it all away and feels sick. Her hands had polished those porcelain tails. There might be a strand or two of her hair left inside that hat, the one she used to wear to church on Sundays. They are all he has left. If he opens that door, he imagines all her belongings coming together, a magnet drawing the scattered particles of her into a pile, a person, a ghost. He’s too scared to open the door and find out he’s right. He is even more scared of opening the door and finding out he’s wrong.

Betty comes in with a cup of tea, which he drinks as he peers out of the window that overlooks a spotlessly tidy, soulless back yard.

‘Don’t you like gardening?’ George blurts out before he can stop himself.

‘Bill used to.’ Betty’s voice is flat. A Keep Out sign.

George looks again and sees pots lining the back wall. They probably used to be planted up each spring. Betty obviously loves colours – her outfit combinations give George a headache. Why wouldn’t she have flowers in her garden? He knows she does them for the church, and she’s not lazy. She’s many, many irritating things, but not that. She’s so full of energy that sometimes just watching her exhausts George.

‘You don’t fancy planting some bulbs?’

It comes out like a question, like he’s offering to get his hands dirty. But he doesn’t want to plant her bulbs. He hasn’t planted his, and doesn’t plan to, so why should he care about Betty’s?

Betty sighs and says, ‘Nosy Nora today, aren’t you? Bill took to this room when his cancer got worse. I used to plant all sorts outside, so he’d have something to look at. I ordered them from a magazine that came through the door. He picked them for their names. Goldenrods and larkspur. Stargazers and dancing ladies. Since he’s been gone there doesn’t seem much point. Time I could give to someone else.’