The waiter was edging closer, trying to work out if it would be worse to bother Donald a second time, or to keep Donald waiting when he wanted to order. Donald beckoned him over.

“Now then,” he said. “I’ve had a good look at this menu of yours, and I think I would like to order a ham sandwich with a side order of rustic chips – but only as long as those rustic chips won’t turn out to be oven fries. They’re won’t turn out to be oven fries, will they?”

“No, sir.”

“Excellent. Oh, and before you go, there’s one more thing I’d like you to do for me.”

“Yes, of course.”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Oh, no, definitely not.”

“You don’t know what I’m going to ask for yet,” said Donald. The boy looked on the verge of tears, and the savour vanished from the game. “Don’t worry, lad. I just want to move tables.”

“Which table would you… ”

“That couple,” said Donald, pointing. “They’re having a row. I want to eavesdrop while I’m having my lunch.”

The boy blinked, but held his tongue. He moved Donald’s coffee cup with reverential care, then ran for the kitchen. Donald settled into his new position. His improved table came with improved seating arrangements: a padded leather bar-stool with a low back instead of the high wooden chair. It reminded him of dawn raids, the smells of stale tobacco and spilled alcohol. Of course, he’d never got to sit down on a dawn raid. Maybe this was a sign he’d gone up in the world… his coffee was cold, but he drank it anyway, listening to his neighbours.

“… must be something,” the man said. “Is it because we never – because it’s still not too late, we could… ”

His companion, rather splendidly, said nothing. Donald could see her back stretched straight and tall as she sat in her uncomfortable wooden chair and her ruined beige trousers. A rustic chip fell from her fingers and landed on the floor.

“… you even listening?” Her companion was growing angry again. “This is why we always end up… ” his voice sank to a furious whisper. Donald, straining his ears, caught little fragments like scraps of glass. “… believe you’re doing… ridiculous… at our age… should be able to… ” Donald’s sandwich arrived and he seized it from the waiter’s hand, making a furious gesture for silence. This was the good bit, he could tell. The waiter dropped the knife and fork.

“I do apologise,” the waiter bleated. Donald shushed him again. The boy looked at him with hurt in his eyes. Donald sighed and beckoned him closer in. The boy hesitated. Donald expertly grabbed his arm and pulled him downwards so that his ear was next to Donald’s mouth.

“Now I’m going to predict the future,” Donald said. The waiter winced, but stayed obediently still. “I predict that the man at that table is going to throw a wad of money on the table and then walk out on his wife. He’s going to do it in five, four, three, two… ”