“Both?” said the waitress. She gave him a patient look. Now he had three things to worry about: that even if she couldn’t smell him, or remember about the walking part, she still might think him senile.

“Tea would be very kind,” said Harold.

To his relief the waitress nodded and disappeared through her swing doors, and the room fell briefly silent. He adjusted his tie and placed his hands in his lap. If he sat very still perhaps the whole thing might go away.

The two grey ladies began saying something about the weather, but Harold didn’t know if they were speaking to one another or the guests in general. He didn’t want to appear rude, but neither did he want to appear to be eavesdropping, so he tried to appear busy. He studied the sign on his table, NO SMOKING, and then he read the one at the window: WOULD GUESTS KINDLY REFRAIN FROM USING MOBILE PHONES. He wondered what had happened in the past that the owners felt the need to prohibit so many things.

The waitress reappeared with a teapot and milk. He let her pour.

“At least you have a nice day for it,” she said.

So she did remember. He took a sip of tea but it scalded his mouth. The waitress was still hovering beside him.

“Do you do this sort of thing often?” she said.

He was aware of a tense stillness in the room that caused her voice to amplify. He glanced briefly up at the other guests, but none of them was moving. Even the potted fern seemed to hold its breath. Harold gave a small shake of his head. He wished the waitress would move on to someone else, but nobody seemed to be doing anything except looking at Harold. As a small boy he had been so afraid of attention, he crept like a shadow. He could watch his mother applying lipstick or staring at her travel magazine without her knowing he was there.

The waitress said, “If we don’t go mad once in a while, there’s no hope.” She briefly patted his shoulder, and at last she retreated through the forbidden swing doors.

Harold felt that he had become the focus of attention without anyone wanting to say it. Even setting down his teacup was something he could see only from outside himself, and it made a clank that startled him as it hit the saucer. Meanwhile the smell was, if anything, getting worse. He berated himself for not thinking to rinse out his socks under the tap the night before; this was what Maureen would have done.

“I do hope you don’t mind my asking,” piped up one of the old ladies, turning to catch his eye. “My friend and I have been wondering what it is you are going to do.”

She was a tall, elegant woman, older than himself, and wearing a soft blouse with her white hair pinned away from her face into a pleat. He wondered if Queenie’s hair had lost its colour. Whether she had grown it like this woman, or cut it short like Maureen. “Is that frightfully rude?” she said.