Afterwards, she would wonder why she hadn’t thought of calling up to George. Afterwards, she would wonder a lot of things. But in that moment, all that occurred to her to do was either to shut the curtains and shield herself from the boy’s strange probing eyes, or to open the door and ask him in.

He lowered himself into a chair at the great oak table where moments before she had been sitting. He appeared to be waiting for something and so, without being asked, Veronica brought him a mug of hot chocolate and a sandwich. The sounds of slow chewing nibbled at their ears.

“What’s happened, Dominic?” she ventured finally, nodding towards his hand.

At first he shrugged in habit, but then, perhaps realising the obligations attached to his sitting there in her kitchen, he mumbled, “Nothing. Cut my finger on a knife.”

“What were you doing with a knife?”

For a moment, Dominic only stared at her, but when finally he did answer, his voice came out far bolder than before. “I was cutting a potato, wasn’t I?”

“Oh.”

Indignant, Dominic seemed a little taller to Veronica. She began to study him afresh, but as she was doing so, there was a roar of voices from next door, from his flat, and as quickly as he’d grown, Dominic sunk smaller.

“Does your mum know you’re hurt?” Veronica persisted. “Did you do it at home?”

Dominic slunk further into his seat. Again came the shrug.

“Dominic, is everything alright?”

This time, the boy’s beady eyes fixed firmly on the table, scanning the papers still littered across it.

“Dominic,” Veronica urged, after another protracted silence.

Nothing.

“Dominic—”

“I used to do colouring on a table like this,” he said suddenly. “At my grandparents’ flat. When I was little. Gram always made a roast dinner, and there was gravy in a little china boat. We never had a boat like that. Gramp let me pour his. He was a teacher, too, like you, but at a university.”

Veronica accepted this outpouring carefully. She smiled, told him how lovely it all sounded, admired his grandfather’s position. Then, “Don’t you see them anymore?” she asked slowly.

“Nah. They fell out with my mum. And Terry said I’m not allowed.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. But you know they are your grandparents so you probably could—”

“No I can’t,” interrupted Dominic, with what Veronica suspected was a slight tone of condescension. He placed his injured hand gently on top of her sheets of marking.

The reminder of schoolwork made Veronica wonder fleetingly what the time was, but not wanting to fluster Dominic, she resisted the desire to look at her watch. There was a peculiar detachment to the boy’s demeanour. Quite plainly he was there by choice, sitting at her table, eating her food; but he seemed also not there, not quite present. Briefly, she contemplated what George would think if he stumbled downstairs upon them – spawn of the thorn in their tranquillity, sitting at their table. But she pressed on.