‘I left my stuff on the counter,’ he pants. He is still holding the Tuc biscuits.

‘You’ve still got the Tuc biscuits,’ I observe.

‘Damn.’

Clifford inspects the Tuc biscuits, foiled.

‘You’d better go back in,’ I caution him, ‘or Biddy will eat you alive.’

‘Yes.’ He nods, not moving.

I am about to go on to apologize for not responding to his calls (and his visit etc.) when I can’t help but notice the new jumper he’s wearing, partially hidden under his scruffy, khaki work coat. It’s a pure horror: a fashionable Pringle; pale yellow in the main, the front a vile knitted patchwork of interconnected pink, white and mauve diamonds.

I instinctively wince. ‘Birthday present?’ I ask.

‘Alice.’ He nods. ‘She was so pleased with it – cost her almost a week’s wages. I just didn’t have the …’

‘Does it fit properly?’

I push back the frayed sleeve of his work coat and pull away, worriedly, at the cuff. There’s not so much as a millimetre of give.

‘It’s a bit snug,’ he concedes.

‘Isn’t that interfering with your circulation?’ I wonder.

‘I have no feeling in my hands,’ he confirms.

‘Can you actually get it off?’

‘Nope,’ he sighs. ‘It’ll tear when I do. So I’m just keeping it on for as long as I possibly can.’

‘I did that with a sticking plaster once after a polio injection at school,’ I fondly reminisce, ‘and I developed blood poisoning.’

‘I remember.’ He nods.

‘How high can you lift your arms?’

With considerable difficulty he lifts them to a 65-degree angle.

‘There are two tiny holes at the armpit and the elbow,’ he explains, ‘which have allowed a certain amount of flexibility.’

‘You need to get it off, quick,’ I warn him. ‘Isn’t it difficult to breathe?’

‘I feel entombed’ – he nods – ‘like an Egyptian mummy. Although it’s fine,’ he rallies, ‘so long as I don’t over-exert myself.’

‘But what if you get a call out for the lifeboat?’ I demand.

He shrugs.

‘There are little marks on the side of your neck,’ I observe, with increasing concern, ‘little welts. It’s like …’ I shudder. ‘It’s like an expensive, lambswool python has swallowed you up, whole.’

‘I tried to get it off this morning,’ he confesses, ‘but I couldn’t do it by myself. I knew if I asked Mum or Dad or Bill it’d get straight back to Alice in a flash. They all think it’s bloody hilarious.’

‘Gracious me!’ I stare at the welts on his neck, somewhat daunted (almost as if they aren’t friction burns at all, but tender little love bites). ‘You must really care for her,’ I reason, jolted, ‘to put yourself through all this discomfort just for the sake of not … for the sake of … for a jumper. And such a – I mean I hope you don’t mind my saying so – but such a … a …’

I don’t have the heart to say it out loud.