‘I’ll do nothing of the sort.’ She sits back down, arms and legs crossed, with her elbow resting on the side of her chair that has begun to wear.

‘You used to.’

‘That was then, things change,’ she says.

‘Well. Anyway, it wasn’t you.’ I rub my face with my hand, still trying to download and compute the events – not to mention the subsequent stoked emotions, flames from burning embers. ‘Somehow, I ended up sat with this woman for half an hour before I was asked to leave.’ I take a sip of tea. ‘Her drinking water was stagnant. I know they’re understaffed, but really? It’s a good job I checked it for her.’

‘Who was it then?’

Mum can smell a story at twenty paces and it’ll be down the bingo hall before the day’s out. But I’m interested to know if she can shed any light, if Susan is more than just a customer to me. To the family. ‘Susan Smith.’ She trips through her mental Rolodex of names, clearly desperate to find ‘Smith, Susan’. Gossip is always better if people know the protagonist. ‘I knew a Susan Brown once,’ she says. ‘Awful woman. Flame-red hair. Total hussy.’

‘Yeah, it’s not her.’

‘And a Susan Killigrew too. Do you remember her? Your dad had a soft spot for her – not that she was the only one, mind, but we won’t go there. Him and Killigrew were childhood sweethearts. Nice woman. Ran the paper shop for a while, stopped doing it when she had her fourth. Last I heard, she’d gone up Scotland.’ I don’t remember her, not that Mum was waiting to see. ‘Susan Smith though… I don’t know a Susan Smith.’ She’s disappointed. And so am I.

‘No, I thought not.’

Mum grimaces at her tea and takes it back into the kitchen, presumably for more milk. ‘Do you think it’s weird she only had my number with her?’ I shout through.

‘You never know when you might need a plumber, love.’ Mum comes back, drinking her tea, this time without the grimace. ‘Presumably you asked her?’

‘She doesn’t talk.’

‘She’s dumb?’

‘I don’t think you can say that anymore, Mum.’

‘I’ll say what I like, I don’t mean owt by it.’

‘Yeah, still though. I don’t…’

‘Look, whatever, Rhys, finish that Garibaldi then I can put the tin away. Not your problem anymore, eh, love.’ She winks, presumably thinking she has put an end to the conversation. Whipping my cup and the biscuit tin away, she kicks the pouffe back to the wall. ‘Now, enough talk about strangers and solitude. I wanted to talk to you.’

‘What?’

‘Well, you know how… The thing is… You see…’ I sit back, watching as Mum gets up and busies around the lounge. ‘You’re not going to believe it,’ she says, laughing. Then she stops, looks out of the window and peers at the back garden. ‘The postman’s been stealing money out of birthday cards.’ She turns to face me. ‘And…’ She sits back down. ‘Doreen down the road’s ’ad a new hip and apparently she can dance again.’ I look up at her, confused. ‘It’s amazing!’ she says, clapping her hands with glee.