‘I often watch her, trimming her edges. She gave up on Ernie doin’ it years ago. And when she’s finished she goes over them again, to make sure they’re neat. And I think, that’s too lonely. She hardly ever sees June.’

‘Didn’t she used to work?’

‘Years ago. Before your time. Myer. Every day, down the drive, dressed in black like she was going to someone’s funeral. Hers, I guess.’ She finished icing the cake and searched her drawers for a plastic message.

‘You’ve never had her in?’

‘Never. That’s terrible, isn’t it, Clem? Just cos you don’t get along with one person … I don’t reckon I ever seen anyone much in there. ’Cept the Avon lady.’ She found a ‘Happy Birthday’ and tried it. ‘Too much?’

‘It’s not her birthday.’

‘What about candles?’

‘I guess.’

She kept searching. ‘When Peter and David were in scouts they’d bob-a-job, and they used to clean his car. And he’d give ’em a few dollars.’ She stopped, staring out of the window, seeing it, perhaps. The boys, their arms heavy with badges, Ernie saying, I don’t know about a bob.

‘Scouts are good for a boy,’ she said. ‘You liked it, didn’t you?’

‘Didn’t last long.’

‘No, you didn’t, did you? But you cooked good soup.’

Best left unsaid, I thought. Although, thinking back, the Cohen Cup was my first and only trophy. The 1st Gleneagles Scouts always entered: a statewide cook-off for troops of seven. One for the entrée, one for the soup, two for mains, two for dessert, and a leader. Me as Mr Soup. Rising at six (it was a camp-out) to grate vegetables, boil bones, add peas, the rest, until I had a soup that would, in 1979, win us the cup.

‘Only thing I ever won,’ I said.

‘Nonsense.’

‘True. I played sport a few times, but I always sucked.’

Cooking soup wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Val had taught me. We’d done it properly. Peter and David had built the fire in their backyard. They’d set up the tripod, warmed the cast-iron pot, then got out a card table to work on. Val had shown me how to grate the vegetables so they tasted best. Flavour, so no one would complain. To cook, just the right amount, so you won trophies.

‘Best soup I ever tasted,’ Val said, settling on a ‘Best Wishes’. ‘The secret was the time you took to let it simmer.’

Simmer. Like our own lives. Like Don, guessing it was probably time to say hello. Maybe, in a few years, he’d ask my name. But there was no rush.

Val was looking across at the Sharpes’ front door, wondering. ‘It seems too late.’

‘How’s that?’

‘After all these years.’

‘It’s never too late.’

She sighed. ‘David chopped the wood, and Peter got the fire going.’