‘April 2018,’ Nain says, wedged in position now. ‘I was thinking about it the other night. He had no idea I was taking it. Last time we ever went out to a party. Worked out it was precisely a hundred days before, well, you know …’

Will nods. Like so many of Nain’s photos dotted about the house, it’s so beautiful that it’s impossible to walk past. It’s the sort of picture you can only take using an old camera with no electronics deciding you’re wrong, because it breaks all the rules. Ninety per cent of the image is jet black, with slivers of white where his hair and the deep wrinkles in his Middle Eastern skin catch the low light. There is the quick-witted grin, the Sinatra cut of his suit: an entire person in a thirty-centimetre square.

‘How you getting on with the camera?’ Nain asks. She gifted her 1970s Olympus to Will a year ago. ‘Shooting lots? Film’s expensive, I know.’

‘A bit. Here and there.’

He rarely leaves home without it. His wages allow him a thirty-six exposure roll every two weeks, together with the school darkroom fees so he can process it.

‘I live in hope that you’ll have something to show me one of these days. I know you have the eye.’

Will can’t bring himself to show his work to anyone, especially not Nain, who he’s certain he couldn’t compare to if he practised for a lifetime. This is something Nain can’t begin to understand, because while they may well share an eye for a good picture, above all they share a lack of belief in their own abilities. Someone need only glance around the walls of her small chalet, not just at the photographs but also at the watercolours of beaches and landscapes, the Indian-ink line drawings of animals, the scenes of fairies and picnicking teddies burned into slabs of timber, to realize that all those years spent working the delicatessen counter in an out-of-town supermarket were a waste of her skills. But Nain would never think such a thing. She can name scores of gifted people in this very neighbourhood; people who possess all the skill and flair to be master cake bakers, model makers, writers, who instead give themselves to jobs where someone makes you put your phone in a locker and tells you what time you can eat your lunch. There are professions that aren’t open to people from places like Patten’s Island; she’s long known that.

‘It’s chilly in here,’ Will says, flinching at the clank each time he prods the ignition button on the gas fire.

‘Don’t you bloody dare!’ Nain laughs. ‘It’s September, for crying out loud.’

Will doesn’t argue, instead unfolding a blanket and laying it over her knees.