‘Friends now is it?’ I lean in. My lips right against her neck.

She turns and puts a hand against my chest to push me back. Snatches the chocolate out of my hand, points to the front room.

‘Stop it, Arthur. Just wait in there, will you?’

I listen out for their voices but there’s nothing. I’m starting to think this whole thing might be a bit of a cock up. I should’ve waited for her to be ready, to let me take her for a drive again or catch an early film in town. It’s all Jimmy’s fault. Him all gung-ho – puffed up and proud of his new little family.

‘If you’re sure about her don’t drag your feet,’ he said, ‘it’s not as if either of you are getting any younger.’

Christine passed him the baby then and Jimmy propped him into the crook of his arm. Little Billy’s eyes started to droop, his lips still warm and milky. All three of them the picture of bloody contentment.

I whistle a little tune. Run my finger over the books in the alcove. Shakespeare and Wordsworth, the Book of Common Prayer. A shelf full of cricket almanacs and a photo of her father standing outside the police station and clutching his hat. I lean in to get a better look. The photograph is all creased and ripped at the edges. Like someone screwed it up by mistake and then tried to flatten it back down. There’s one of May as a baby too. Pristine. She’s laid out on a lacy blanket. Smothered in frills. I try to find her in it, her face as it is now. In the photo she’s bald as a coot. But her expression’s the same. All deep and serious. I’ll tease her about it some time. But not today. I’m on thin enough ice as it is.

There isn’t a speck of dust anywhere but it still feels closed and unlived in – a museum piece just for show. Mum could always spot them a mile off, the people with money, the ones who had proper cabinets for the good china and special rooms saved just for visitors. On Blackpool prom they’d be counting out the pennies before going in the shops, the children looking miserable because they had to choose between an ice cream and a go on the donkeys. No wonder they never run out, Mum said once, it’s cause they never bloody spend any of it.

I look out of the big bay window onto the roses and the village green. There are children playing games on the grass, a little boy in shorts running in and out of the trees to try and get away. Then the voices from the hallway. The clink of teacups. I sit down on a perfectly plumped cushion and wait.