But Tommy’s table manners weren’t exactly refined either. He ate quickly, head down, as though completing a chore as swiftly as possible. Or else he was ravenous, Malcolm thought.

Tommy said eventually, his food almost finished, “Did you make this yourself? The pie?”

Malcolm nodded, mouth full.

“It’s nice,” Tommy said.

“It was better a couple of days ago,” Malcolm said, swallowing. “Doesn’t reheat so well.”

“I don’t remember you cooking much,” Tommy said. “I remember Heather doing it all.”

Malcolm was surprised at how intimate this comment felt, how swiftly and painfully the past rose up between them. There was Tommy as a child, sitting right where he was now, Heather fussing around him, Malcolm silent, letting her get on with it.

“I learned after Heather died,” he said. “Had to. Wasn’t so hard in the end. You just find a recipe and follow the instructions. There’s no magic there.” He paused, feeling as though he’d been disloyal to Heather without meaning to. “But I can’t cook the way she could. I get by, that’s all.”

Tommy nodded and said nothing else. He’d finished his food and put his cutlery down on the table. After a moment, he seemed to remember himself and picked up his knife and fork, aligning them neatly on the plate. Then he leaned his head on his hand. He looked like he was falling asleep at the table.

Malcolm finished the remnants of his own meal and glanced discreetly at the clock on the wall. It was only eight thirty. Usually now he’d make a cup of tea and read a book in the living room or put the TV on. He wondered how Tommy spent his evenings, but couldn’t begin to picture it.

He stood up to clear the plates, but Tommy said, in a way that was swiftly becoming familiar, “I’ll do it.”

“Just leave them on the side,” Malcolm said. “I’ll wash them tomorrow morning.” Leaving the washing up until the next day was one of the small luxuries he’d allowed himself since Heather’s death. Other than that, he’d been fairly strict about keeping to her routines.

Tommy rinsed the plates and cutlery carefully and put them by the sink. Then he stayed where he was, leaning against the counter.

Malcolm said, “Would you like a cup of tea? We could see what’s on the TV, or I have the papers to look at . . .” (Three days out of date, he remembered, which wasn’t bad for out here, though he wasn’t sure Tommy would see it that way.)

But Tommy said, “Actually, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go to bed. It’s been a long day.”

“Of course,” Malcolm said, careful to hide his relief. “Have you got everything you need?”

Tommy nodded. “I’ll just take a glass of water up.”