It was not intentional, on either side I believe, but it came to pass last Sunday and quite by accident I suggested he stay, and quite surprisingly he agreed. To be honest, I think he was as shocked by his acceptance as I was by my invitation.

We were finishing a game of Scrabble – he is a formidable opponent – and I asked him outright how long he thought he would be staying. He said he did not know.

‘Do you have anywhere else to go?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘There is nowhere for a man like me,’ was his answer.

How I wanted to know more! What horrible burden could a man so young be carrying to have lost his place completely in the world? My curiosity finally got the better of me, and so I asked.

‘Tell me, Charlie,’ I said. ‘What was it that led you here? We are friends, if not in a conventional fashion, and I shall not judge.’

I could see in his eyes he wished to tell me but was scared to do so. Like a child who knows they have done something wrong and wants to confess but is afraid of his parents’ wrath.

Nothing could have prepared me for his answer, my love, nothing in this world. I promised him I would never tell a soul and so I will not, not even you. He has taken a great risk in my knowing and I dare not betray his trust. My hands are shaking even now.

I will tell you that I have removed all traces of alcohol from the cottage. Even my cooking sherry – what will become of my Christmas trifle this year? But while his story is indeed horrific and sad, I trust he is no threat. I am, perhaps, being a foolish old woman, but if you had seen his eyes, you would agree with me.

Perhaps.

As he finished his story, my heart broke and, apparently, all sense left me.

‘Would you like to stay here?’ I asked and he looked at me as if he could not quite believe I had said it. He whispered yes and I felt overcome by a brief wash of doubt, wishing I could take it back. Then I saw the tears falling down his cheeks and I realised I had done the right thing.

‘My poor child,’ I told him, ‘this is your home as long as you wish.’

Before I emptied all the alcohol (do not fear – I gave your whisky away to William Tucker when he returned all those years ago; it did not go down the drain), I poured myself a large glass of wine and wondered if I would live to regret my rashness.