The clothes are horrible, of course, but I’m in no position to quibble. I put on a light blue shirt – it’s clean and ironed, I notice – and a pair of dark brown slacks with a sharp crease up the front, and turn-ups. If Jonathan sees me, I’ll never hear the end of the turn-ups.

To my astonishment, the clothes actually do fit quite well. There’s a faint odour of mothballs, but that aside, it’s not a total disaster.

‘I suppose you need shoes and socks.’

‘Well …’

He looks at my bare feet. ‘Size eight?’

‘Nine.’

‘Big feet,’ he says, rather longingly, and I half expect him to come out with the old line about men with big feet, but instead he goes back to the bedroom and comes out with a pair of well polished brown brogues and some dark grey socks.

‘I hope these will do. Now, do you need money?’

‘What?’

‘To get to work. Unless you keep your bus pass where the sun don’t shine.’

‘Oh. Right. Well, if you don’t mind.’

He gives me twenty quid from a jar on the hall stand. I can see a big roll of notes inside, and I feel rather uneasy looking.

‘We used to call it the Emergency Trade Fund,’ he says, with a smile.

I pocket the money. There’s an old dry-cleaning ticket in the trouser pocket – pink, with a safety pin through it.

‘I’m glad I didn’t throw all his stuff away now,’ says Michael. ‘Stephen’s been going on at me for weeks. Says it’s time to move on.’

‘That must be hard,’ I say, hoping this isn’t going to take long; if I hurry, I can get to work almost on time.

‘It is, Robert. You’ve no idea. So much to do.’ He shudders. ‘Horrible.’

I say, ‘Yes,’ but I realise that I have no idea what you have to do when someone dies.

‘Still, I’m lucky,’ he says. ‘We left everything to each other. They won’t be chucking me out on the streets just yet.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘Are you? That’s very kind.’

There’s a moment’s silence, and I have a horrible feeling that he’s about to pounce.

‘Now, there’s a jacket that goes with those trousers. And do you need a tie?’

‘No, really, this is fine.’

‘Good lord, you can’t go out without a jacket. What is the world coming to?’

The jacket is really the worst part of the ensemble, a loud brown and white check that makes me look like a sales rep. I put it on – it fits perfectly across the shoulders, and tapers at the waist – and he brushes a speck of dust off the shoulder.

‘There,’ he says, ‘you’ll do. Can’t send you off to work looking like a scruff. What would they say about me?’

‘Thank you, Michael. You’ve been very kind.’

‘Not at all, lad, not at all. You’ve made my day.’ He winks, and sees me off the premises, like a proud mother.