‘You did know that was where they came from?’ Maggie seemed amused.

‘Yeah. It just seems… brutal.’

‘Life is.’ She picked up her cutlery and began eating. Tom did the same. She tried not to watch him eat. It was still a novelty to have company and it warmed her soul to see him enjoying the food she’d prepared. She’d spent a whole evening mulling over what to serve. When they’d finished he sat back.

‘Did you like that?’ she asked.

‘Yes. It was lovely. Thank you.’ His words came out in a childlike rush, as if he’d been reprimanded for not using his manners.

‘Do you know what it was?’ A hint of a smile teased at Maggie’s lips.

Tom scrunched up his shoulders. ‘Dunno. Pork maybe?’

‘Rabbit,’ she said and she waited for his response.

He blinked a couple of times and completed his shrug. ‘I liked it.’

‘Have you got room for some cake?’

‘Definitely.’ He stacked his plate on Maggie’s, took them to the sink and rushed back to sit at the table.

Maggie cut him a large slice of cake and a smaller piece for herself. Tom picked it up quickly and bit into it but then seemed to almost go into slow motion.

‘Good?’ asked Maggie, watching him closely.

‘That’s amazing.’ He ate slowly savouring every bite, very different to how he’d eaten his main meal. When he’d finished he meticulously picked up every crumb from the plate. ‘That was exactly like my mum’s cake,’ he said, melancholy tingeing his words.

‘Then she was a fine cook,’ said Maggie, with a wink.

As if already in a routine, Maggie washed up and Tom made her a cup of tea and poured another Coke for himself. This time they took their drinks through to the small sitting room. A large fireplace took centre stage and Maggie lit the prepared firewood and kindling nest she’d made in the wood burner before he arrived.

Tom set the drinks down on floral coasters, pausing to study a couple of photographs on the low coffee table.

‘Is that your husband?’

‘It is.’ She stopped herself from gushing about him. The man who had brought her back from the brink. The person she had expected to spend her twilight years with.

‘That you?’ he asked, taking in the second photograph of a young woman in patchwork flares cradling a baby.

Maggie glanced over her shoulder. ‘Yep.’

‘Who’s the baby?’

Maggie hesitated. ‘My son.’

‘Were you a hippie?’

She could feel the smile in his voice without looking. ‘I always preferred the term flower child.’

Tom snorted a laugh and sat down on the sofa. ‘Aren’t hippies all vegetarians?’ he asked.

‘Aren’t teenagers all lazy delinquents?’ said Maggie with a knowing look.

Tom laughed. ‘Good point. Sorry.’