‘Least I can do is keep the gas bill under control,’ she says. Her expression shifts suddenly, lips tightening against teeth. ‘He was out there again this afternoon.’ She points to the closed curtains, beyond which is her small back yard. ‘Brazen, he is.’

Will’s fairly sure he knows where this is going, but plays along regardless. Out of what – politeness? Duty? He’s never sure.

‘Who was out there?’

‘What’s-his-name. You know. Arbuckle! That Jonny Arbuckle next door.’

‘Does he still live there?’

Will knows that the De Souza family live there, that Mr Arbuckle moved away five years ago.

‘Stealing my electricity again. Making a racket all afternoon.’

‘Maybe he was using his own electricity, Nain.’

‘Drills, saws, sanders – all sorts. He thinks I’m such a mug.’

‘I don’t think anyone’s stealing from you.’

‘I can’t afford it, Wilbo. As if things aren’t bad enough.’

‘Try not to worry. I’m sure –’

‘It makes me so bloody cross.’ There are tears in her eyes now as she slams a fist against the arm of her chair.

Will hugs her and kisses her head. Her soft white hair smells of the perfume she’s always worn and, as Will closes his eyes, he realizes that it’s him who feels safe now, even though he’s the one doing the comforting. He thinks how bizarre it is that minutes ago she was remembering the exact day she took a particular photograph, and in another moment she’s recounting something that never happened, or relying on a foil dish of Cumberland pie to tell what day it is.

As the moments pass, he feels the tension in her ease, and knows that she’s either talked herself round or forgotten entirely what had wound her up in the first place.

‘Gonna sort my tea,’ he whispers, creeping back to the kitchen.

The chips are almost golden and bubbles rise slowly through the gloopy baked-bean sauce, popping and splattering the hob. Noise spills from the old medium-wave radio on top of the fridge. Through the whistling interference and the crackle of static, Will can detect two separate stations fighting each other to be heard. There’s some sort of country and western song with swooping steel guitar, and then there’s a radio play with cut-glass accents talking about a pheasant shoot.

Who are these people who listen to dramas on the radio, Will briefly wonders, and why don’t they watch telly instead? He notices that if he concentrates on the music, the conversation fades into the background; if he focuses on the posh farmers, the song recedes till it’s like the music in a lift. There’s a great crack of interference as he sweeps the aerial to one side, finding a sweet spot where just the music remains.