It was Lotte, ever her princess knight in shining armour, who threw herself into researching RA, presenting Tor with several articles on cold water swimming, along with some glittery jelly shoes. It helped some people by taking down the inflammation, she explained, and was surely worth a go? After that first freezing dip in the sea, there was no turning back. The sea is Tor’s drug and her salvation.

Tor feels a kind of pride in her stoicism and forbearance, especially when Alice, her twin sister, regularly declares that Tor’s a ‘mentalist’ for going in the sea in the winter. Alice only deigns to go in the Med in August. But then, Alice has always been a hypochondriac, scamming their mother into days off school and perpetuating the myth of her ‘delicate’ constitution, like she’s some kind of heroine from a Jane Austen novel, when actually she’s as tough as old boots.

Tor could tell her the truth, of course, but she won’t. She’s not going to give Alice any kind of ammunition to hold over her. Besides, there’s no point in bitching about her health when she has so much more to be grateful for in her life than the homeless people she deals with at work. Especially on a day like today.

There’s a low rumble of voices under the awning they’ve rigged up, as the crowd prod the meagre contents of their boxes. The air smells of cigarettes, damp clothes and school dinners. It’s impossible to tell, looking at the crowd, whether they’re young or old, men or women. What unites them is their defensive body language, their mismatched layers of hoodies and jackets, and their general resignation. This is usually a jolly event, but the Covid restrictions have made everyone more guarded and ground down.

Slade’s ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’ is playing on the van’s speaker – one of the Christmas songs that particularly grates on Tor’s nerves. That’s one good thing about Christmas being over soon; she can finally stop playing these dreadful cheery songs, because their over-sung trite lyrics only seem to augment how strained this charity event really is. Because, no, Noddy, not everyone is having fun. OK, maybe apart from Vic.

She can smell him before he arrives. She knows for a fact that he used to wash every day in the public toilets on the seafront and was horrified when they closed during lockdown.

‘It’s Christmas,’ Vic sings in a silly voice, gurning as he gives Tor his empty food box and she puts it in the black bin bag. His straggly beard is caught in the sling of a grubby medical mask and he licks gravy off his dirty finger with relish.

‘Best turkey I’ve had in years. Reminded me of being a boy in Margate.’

‘Is that where did you used to live?’

‘We used to have wonderful Christmases,’ he says. ‘Big tree. The works.’

Tor listens patiently, knowing Vic likes to talk, knowing too that this might be the first and last friendly conversation that he’ll have all day. He lost everything when his family kicked him out for drinking and, after he did time in Lewes jail, they made themselves impossible to find. Tor knows that if her only option was to live in a bus shelter like Vic, she’d probably drink Frosty Jack’s for breakfast too. Who wouldn’t? But Vic has a jolly disposition and seems to accept his lot.