Will stops for a moment outside Nain’s front door and takes a deep breath, as he always does. He knows that once he’s pressed the doorbell or stuck his key in the lock, he’s at the mercy of whatever might be waiting for him inside. There have been times when that fact has come close to making him walk away. He turns for a moment and looks at the few multicoloured flowers and stone squirrels that decorate her front garden. This small plot used to burst with blooms in every colour imaginable, a proper neighbourhood landmark. These days she keeps it simple.

‘Let yourself in, Wilbo,’ a voice shouts from inside.

Nain is in the kitchen, where she’s half sitting on, half leaning against a wheeled stool at the worktop. In front of her is a mound of roughly chipped potatoes and a gin and bitter lemon in a half-pint beer jug.

‘Look at the bloody state of them,’ she says, pointing a shaking finger at the chips. ‘Silly old fart.’

Will crouches to give her a hug and kisses her hot forehead. Beneath her silver woolly jumper she feels like a baby bird.

‘I said I’d cook my tea,’ he says, spotting the gammon and pineapple laid on foil and the beans on the stove. ‘You’ve eaten?’

‘Portuguese Louisa left ten minutes ago.’ Nain has a protocol when referring to her carers, prefacing their first names with their country of origin. ‘Cumberland pie. That makes it Friday?’

‘Yup.’

‘Don’t get old, Wilbo. Working out the day of the week from what’s on the menu! Bloody hell.’

She digs around in the fridge and Will helps her extract the chip pan from right at the back.

‘I’ll do my tea, Nain,’ he says quietly but firmly.

‘What use am I when I can’t even feed you?’

‘How are you?’ he asks. ‘Sorry, got called into work the last couple of nights.’

‘You work too hard.’ She rubs his arm.

‘We kinda need the money. Been OK, though?’

‘Fine, dear. Fine. Not buying green bananas, you know.’

Will tries to laugh, gripping his hand round Nain’s as she attempts to light the gas rings.

‘Go sit down,’ he says. ‘I’ll join you in a minute.’

He guides her to her chair, arm linked with hers, lowers her by the shoulders into her threadbare mustard-coloured armchair and waits while she packs cushions round herself. As he steadies her, he looks at the wall over the fireplace. His grandad stares back at him, or at least so it seems from the sparkling life in his eyes. The framed portrait rests above a highly polished cherry-wood box on the mantelpiece.