‘Ah, you’re awake at last,’ Lizzie said, pushing aside the comics and putting down a tray. ‘We’ve made some vegetable soup, just in case you’re hungry.’

‘How long have I been here?’

‘A couple of days,’ she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘We were worried about you. How are you feeling now?’

He considered for a moment, checking himself out. His head had stopped thumping, his breathing felt easier, his body was calm, no longer shivering. ‘A lot better, thank you,’ he concluded. ‘I’m so sorry to dump myself on you like this.’

‘Don’t be silly. We’re always pleased to see you. I’m glad you seem to be on the mend.’ The soup was delicious. She sat smiling beside him as he finished the whole bowl and then lay back on the pillow, exhausted. A few hours later she returned with a tea tray, and passed him a plate with a hot buttered crumpet.

‘Johnnie always said you were an angel, and now I know what he meant,’ he said, tucking in. He was so busy trying not to get butter on the sheets that he failed, for a moment, to notice how her smile had disappeared. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s all right,’ she said, rearranging her features with a slight sigh. ‘And it’s sweet of you to tell me what he said. About being an angel. I’ll cherish that.’

‘He was a good man, Lizzie. The best.’

‘We do miss him so, but life has to carry on. We don’t really have any choice, do we?’

The next day was New Year’s Eve. Vic felt strong enough to come downstairs for supper, and after the children had gone out to see friends, Lizzie coaxed the fire into flame with a new log and took out a bottle of port and two glasses.

‘How’s about it?’

‘Don’t mind if I do.’

‘Builds you up, Johnnie always used to say.’

‘To Johnnie,’ he said, holding up his glass.

She clinked her glass to his. ‘To Johnnie – and a happy New Year, Vic.’

‘Heaven knows what 1942 will throw at us.’

‘Let’s not think about that tonight,’ she said.

‘Quite right. Enjoy the moment. But I’ll have to be on my way tomorrow, alas.’

‘Are you really well enough for work?’

‘I’m afraid so, though honest to God, I’m reluctant to leave. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.’

‘It’s been a pleasure,’ she said, refilling his glass. ‘But you can grant me one thing in return.’

‘And what is that?’

‘Satisfying my curiosity. What brought you here in the first place? Are you okay?’

‘I don’t want to burden you with my woes.’

‘I’m a good listener. It might help,’ she said, her sweet face attentive in the firelight.

He took a breath and then, tentatively at first, began to describe what had happened over Christmas with his father and Diane; how he felt guilty complaining when that poor tramp had so little, but how he now felt so adrift, not attached to anywhere, no longer knowing who he was. There were no footholds, no places of safety, comfort or solace. He didn’t even have anywhere he could call home any more. ‘I’ve even given away my coat.’