“Fine,” she says.

I smell burning.

“What can I do to help?” I say.

“Not a thing, sweetheart. You sit yourself down and pour some tea. I made a pot.”

Vera ushers us to the table, which she has set with mismatching plates and stained cutlery and chipped mugs. In the middle of the table, a loaf of white bread, ketchup, brown sauce, a bag of sugar, and a fresh carton of milk.

“Where’s the lord of the manor?” Vera asks.

“He’s still asleep,” I say. “He had a long day yesterday.”

“So you staying in London for a few days, then?”

“We’re leaving today,” Iris says in the curt way she uses when she is talking to her mother.

“Here you are, Iris,” says Vera, setting a plate piled with food in front of her daughter. “Get that into you, love. You look like you could do with a bit of feeding up.”

It’s true to say that Iris has lost some weight recently. I only notice it now that Vera has said it.

“I’ll just have an egg,” I say as Vera begins to load a second plate. She turns slowly towards me, holding a fork in one hand. Grease drips from the prongs onto the floor.

“Watcha mean?” says Vera.

“I mean, just, you know, an egg. Any kind of egg.”

“Why would you just want an egg?” says Vera.

“Well...the thing is...”

“Terry is a vegetarian,” says Iris.

“A vegetarian?” says Vera. She says the word slowly, rolls it around her mouth as if she is tasting it.

“Yes,” says Iris. She takes a slice of bread out of the bag, butters it.

Vera looks at me. “So...you don’t eat meat?” she says.

“No.”

“What do you eat then?”

“Well, you know, vegetables and...”

“But no meat?”

“No.”

“You can’t just eat vegetables.”

“I eat other things as well.”

“What other things?” says Vera, as the grease from the fork continues to drip onto the floor.

“Lots of things. Like eggs. And cheese. And beans. And—”

“I got beans!” Vera says, her face flooding with relief.

“Don’t worry. An egg will be lovely. I love eggs.” I smile a wide, wide smile to demonstrate to Vera how much I love eggs.

Vera looks at Iris, who nods. “It’s true. Terry really loves eggs.”

Vera shakes her head again before turning to face the carnivorous pan.

The arrival of Dad in the room provides a welcome distraction.

“Don’t tell me you’re a vegetarian, an’ all,” Vera says, pronging four sausages with the fork and shaking them towards Dad in a vaguely confrontational manner.

“They’re burned,” he says, pointing at the sausages that are indeed hard and black.

“He says that about all food,” I tell Vera, which is not true. He only says it about burned food.

I stand up and usher Dad into my chair, butter a slice of bread for him, smear it with jam. Vera pours him a cup of tea. Iris—in fairness to her—makes her way through the mountain of food on her plate. “Thank you,” she says to her mother when she manages to finish it. “That was...lovely.”