‘I’ll fix it if you like,’ Clifford volunteers, ‘the frame.’

‘It’s fine,’ I insist, ‘I can do it myself. Some strong glue …’

‘Oh. Okay.’ He is slightly hurt yet resigned.

‘I still love it. I still love birch trees,’ I muse. ‘Berezka. Beautiful Berezka. I don’t know why, they just make me feel so … so …’

‘Russian,’ he murmurs.

I start.

‘I really like all your new propaganda posters …’ He inspects the busy walls, thoughtfully, his eyes pausing on an early ‘Liberated Women Build up Socialism!’ poster which features a wholesome Russian peasant girl brandishing a pistol. Next to it the ‘Think About Those Who Are Starving!’ poster in blue and black with a loaf, cup, bowl and ominous, pointing hand.

‘I’ve been using them as a cheap way of covering up all the stains on the old wallpaper,’ I explain, ‘although they’re way too good for a kitchen, really—’

‘I see your collection of Russian lacquered boxes has increased a fair bit since I last visited,’ he interrupts, flexing his chest as the scissors finally break through the jumper’s waistline. ‘And the Soviet china figurines …’ He tips his head towards the old dresser. ‘Is that a new Lomonosov Chow?’

‘Uh …Yes. I found it wrapped up in a big box of Uzbek fabrics. In an antique shop near Hythe … D’you think you might manage to pull it off manually from here?’

Clifford tries to yank the jumper from his shoulder but his arms are still stiff and he has no luck.

‘Shall I cut down the back?’

He nods and shuffles around, obligingly.

‘Has Shimmy been to visit you here lately?’ he wonders.

‘Shimmy?’ I pause, briefly, before answering. ‘Uh. No. Not of late. He’s still not especially mobile. That problem with his feet.’

Clifford turns his head to peer towards the blades as I insert them, pressing gently into the nape of his neck.

‘Why d’you ask?’ I wonder, slightly anxious. He doesn’t respond so I recommence cutting again.

‘I’ve been doing some work for a man in Bexhill who’s trying to get shot of a collection of Soviet army surplus stuff – a gas mask, a transistor radio, a canteen and a vodka flask, some military badges …’

‘Sounds interesting.’ I continue to cut.

‘He showed me a little, wooden sewing kit – a travelling kit – in the shape of a minaret. And a group of Kiddush cups – the sterling silver ones. Not a complete set. I think he had five in total. In fact …’

‘I can see how this might’ve been expensive,’ I muse, smoothly running the scissors – and my hand – down the back of the jumper, ‘it’s very soft.’

‘Soft but lethal,’ Clifford affirms.

‘And very bright. Luminous, almost.’

‘A statement piece.’ Clifford smiles, wanly.

‘Is that how Alice described it?’ I wonder, chuckling.

‘Uh …’ he frowns, obviously not wanting to appear disloyal.

The scissors cut the waistband and I pull back with a measure of satisfaction (like a smug Lady Mayor on cutting the ribbon at a local fete): ‘The Pringle is vanquished!’ I grin, throwing down the scissors and grabbing the jumper firmly at the top of his arm in order to yank it off. ‘Clifford Bickerton is finally liberated from the scourge of lambswool!’