‘Leave him be, Arthur.’ May hisses it from the doorway. She’s standing there with her hands on her hips giving me the look. ‘What are you doing?’

I wave her away, ‘He’s sleeping. I’m not doing anything.’

‘Imagine if he wakes up now, with your ugly mug hovering over him. He’ll be traumatised for life.’

Stand up and my knees crack. Everything seizing up.

‘Haven’t you finished that cake yet?’

‘Not quite.’

‘What’re you doing out here then? Get back in the kitchen, woman.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Ha, ha, very funny.’

I follow her into the hall, through to the doorway.

‘Any mixture going?’

‘Not yet. You need a shower.’

‘Thanks for the advice.’

But she’s right. I stink. The rain’s seeped right in through the seams of the crappy waterproof. Wet patches on my shirt that could be sweat or water. There’s no way of telling. I finished early – rushed through my round to get back and see him. Feel like I’ve been walking for a thousand years. The warmth is wearing off now. If I don’t get dry soon I’ll be chilled to the bone.

‘Karen rang,’ May says.

‘How is she?’

‘Angry mostly. But it won’t last.’

‘No sign of Ian?’

‘Nothing. The police have been round.’

‘Again?’

‘One final search they said.’

‘What the hell has that bastard been up to?’

‘They won’t tell her much. Still think she’s hiding things.’

‘Should I go over?’

‘She said she wanted to be alone for a while.’

I rub my hand over my eyes. I should’ve done something. I don’t know what I could’ve done.

‘It’ll be alright,’ May says, ‘we’ll make sure they’re both ok.’

‘Thank goodness she never married him.’

She holds up a hand covered in flour or icing sugar and strokes her fingers across my forehead, touches the tip of my nose.

‘Oh look,’ she says, ‘you’ve got a little something on your face.’

I run up the stairs because when my legs are stiff like this the only way is to push through it. Turn on the shower. The steam filling the bathroom, covering the mirror. One day, when Alex is older he’s going to want to know about his dad. He’s going to want to know why he buggered off. Who knows what we’ll be able to tell him? Whatever we tell him he should know he was always a blessing to us. Scrub away the sweat and the ink and the grime of letterboxes and rusty gates and the stinking dogs who rub up against to me and sniff at the sour stains on the mailbag. Wash away the rain.