She twirled her umbrella. A bird skimmed over our heads and across the water. ‘There’s other things, though, that we need,’ she said. ‘To keep things running. Apart from heat and light.’

‘Not much,’ I said.

She wrapped her arms around my waist and I smelled the warmth of her thick hair. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No. I suppose not.’

It was a quiet wedding. Kathryn carried red carnations; I remember thinking that with all those frilly edges they weren’t quite right for her, but they suited the registry office with its green leather armchairs and photos of local councillors on the walls. When we signed the register Mum’s hand rested on my shoulder, and Kathryn stared as I wrote my name with the fountain pen. ‘Your signature,’ she said. ‘It looks different from how it did in the library.’ I gave Mum my camera to take some pictures, but none of them came out very well. I still have the one I took, of Kathryn just after the ceremony, standing in the doorway of the town hall, looking off to the right, holding her bunch of blooms down by her thigh, the fleshy tip of her nose slightly pink from the cool spring day. On the back of the photo I wrote, Mrs Kathryn Hall.

The house was a surprise for my wife. We’d been living with Mum for a few months after we were married, which I didn’t mind, but Kathryn was keen to move for obvious reasons. So I’d been to the council and put our name on the list, and this place had come up in Totleigh Way. It was just down the road from Mum’s and it had gardens back and front, so I took it immediately.

It was a hot day when we came here; the grass out front was scorched, and there was dust all over Kathryn’s new shoes by the time we made it to the door.

‘It doesn’t look too promising from the outside,’ I said as I pushed the key in the lock. Kathryn squeezed my hand. ‘Our new house!’ she whispered.

I thought afterwards that I should have carried her over the threshold, but she was in the door and up the hall before I could say anything.

We stood in the hallway in silence. It was cool in there even though the sun was blazing outside, and the smell of damp rose up like rotten fruit.

We walked through the downstairs rooms, Kathryn leading the way, her heels clacking on the bare concrete floor. The walls in the hallway were covered in green paint that was so thick it shone. Kathryn ran a finger along the paint as she walked, tracing each bump.

She opened the door to the kitchen, looking back at me uncertainly before entering.

We stood in the middle of the room and looked around. I knew that her eyes would be registering every detail, and I noticed, with a sudden, sharp clarity, all the things she would be noticing. I don’t think the walls had ever seen plaster. They were painted white, but had gone yellow long ago. On one wall there was a brown outline where the cooker must once have been. The smell of ancient chip fat hung in the air.