‘Unsettled is the least of it,’ Malcolm says banging his fist on the table. He has a Scottish accent. Even sitting down he’s massive. Tall and bulky and impossible to ignore. ‘Unsettled is the tip of the bloody iceberg.’

He looks at me.

‘What’s your name again, hen?’

‘Afsana.’

‘Afsana. Af. Sana. Well, that’s a new one.’ He angles his chair away from Gill and leans across the table. ‘What is it we’re doing here, Afsana? What are we waiting for? What’s expected?’

I sit down next to May who mutters something under her breath. Before I can answer him Gill steps in. ‘Life stories, Malcolm,’ she doesn’t look up, ‘we’re sharing memories.’

‘Well in that case let’s start at the beginning. Picture it: The Glasgow slums, nineteen…. nineteen…,’ he waves his hands around and almost hits Tony in the head, ‘oh, sod it. A bloody long time ago. One cold morning when the rain is shitting down, a baby slips out of its mother a month too early. Slips out of her like a mackerel from the Clyde.’

Gill sighs. ‘It’s Tony’s turn now, Malcolm, we’re listening to Tony’s memories.’ She reaches out and touches Tony’s sleeve. He jumps a little and looks up, adjusts his glasses, tries to focus. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, love. You remember? We were talking about where you met your wife, Jean.’

He clears his throat. ‘Willerton Conservative Club 1952. A tea dance. She was wearing a blue dress and I–’

‘A Tory, eh! I might’ve known. I can tell by the way you wear your glasses. Blue was the right colour for her then. Appropriate. I bet it was buttoned right up to the top.’

‘No politics, Malcolm. You know the rules. If you start you’ll have to leave the group.’

Malcolm pretends to zip his lips together. He winks at me. I look away. On the other side of me May is rocking gently, staring at her hands, rubbing them together. She leans closer. ‘I had a dress with blue buttons,’ she says, ‘I wore it in the tea tent.’

Tony looks bewildered. Albert has already put his head down on the table and fallen asleep.

‘A blue dress, Tony?’ Gill prompts.

‘And I asked her to dance…’

‘Of course you did,’ Malcolm says, ‘It was the logical next step.’

‘A quickstep.’

‘No use in hesitating.’ Malcolm stands up and gets into the ballroom position, as if he’s ready for a partner. ‘Come on, Tory boy. Don’t keep a lady waiting.’

‘Sit down, Malcolm.’

He does, but somehow, in the confusion, May has pushed her chair back and is halfway towards the door. By the time I catch up with her and take her arm she’s shaking. Humming a tune under her breath as if her life depends on it.