‘Yes.’ He looks suitably crestfallen at the notion. ‘We’ve been engaged for eight years now. I suppose I must probably feel something.’

(Clifford and Alice, a local milkmaid, were engaged after she proposed to him, in 1976, a leap year, and he was just too kind to say no. At least that was always his version of events. Alice plays the scene quite differently, by all accounts.) I nod. Now it’s my turn to look crestfallen. I decide to take it on the chin, though, and promptly rally. I draw a steadying breath and strengthen my resolve. I know that the worst thing I could possibly do under these particular circumstances would be to offer Clifford any form of assistance.

No. I shan’t. I shall not. I will not – must not, definitely not – offer Clifford Bickerton any kind of help. I must never help Clifford Bickerton, and I must never receive help from Clifford Bickerton.

Oh, but the urge to offer help is so … so natural, so instinctive, so spontaneous, so … so …

No. No! No help, Carla. No offers of help! None.

‘Go and pay for the biscuits,’ I promptly tell him, ‘then pop around to the bungalow. I can’t possibly leave you like this. I have a pair of shears … Uh …’ I pause, scowling. ‘At least I did have a pair of shears …’

‘In the shed?’ he asks, almost tender (I suppose men will feel emotional about outbuildings).

I nod. ‘I do have some kitchen scissors, though,’ I persist.

His face lights up. It lights up. Every pore and auburn whisker is suffused with joy.

No! No, Carla! Bad Carla! Mustn’t. Offer. Help.

Will. Not.

I. Must. Not.

No. Help.

None!

Ten minutes later and he is kneeling on the worn kitchen lino and I am brandishing the scissors in front of him.

‘Sure you’re all right with this?’

‘Yup. Do it.’ He braces himself.

I kneel down beside him and gently slide the bottom blade of the scissors under the right-hand side of the jumper’s collar.

‘Stay very still,’ I instruct him, leaning in closer. It is difficult to find the correct angle and draw the blades together without resting my lower arm and wrist against his leonine neck and cheek. Ah, and there’s that all too familiar ‘Clifford smell’ of candle wax, sleeping puppies and engine grease! A lovely smell. The smell of industry and loyalty and good intent.

‘Your Tikhomirov study of the birches is on the floor,’ Clifford quietly observes.

‘Uh … Sorry?’ I re-focus.

‘Your painting of the birch trees …’ he repeats.

‘Oh. Yes. Of course. It fell down. During the landslip. It was the only casualty inside the house. The bottom of the frame snapped.’

‘I remember the day you bought that.’ He smiles tenderly at the memory.

‘Yes.’

I adjust my arm, frowning, and start to cut. The jumper curls away beneath my hand on both sides like two obliging slithers of apple peel. The trusty old vest below has – to its eternal credit – somehow managed to stay intact.