Can’t even manage to get through the simplest activities in life without making a hash of them, he berates himself, whacking the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. ‘Just what is the point?’ he shouts out loud, startling himself. ‘Just what is the ruddy, bloody point of it all? You’re a complete waste of space.’ Whatever was he thinking, coming all this way after so many years, out of stupid sentiment? He starts the engine and crunches angrily into first gear, spinning the rear wheels on the gravel.

One pound and thirty-eight pence would buy him a pint and a bag of chips at least, and he could warm up. Perhaps if he has something to eat, his mind will start working properly and he can decide what to do next. He drives back towards the town, parks in a side street and begins to walk towards the centre. There must be a pub around here somewhere.

As he turns a corner, his eye is caught by a cheery window on the opposite side of the street. It looks so inviting: people sitting at tables with red gingham cloths set with pots of tea, and tiered cake stands piled with sandwiches and pastries. A flickering glow on their faces suggests there is a real fire somewhere in the room. He can just make out some fancy italic lettering in an arc across the window: Kathleen’s Kitchen. His feet stop involuntarily in their tracks.

With a hammering heart, he crosses the road and opens the door, causing the bell to tinkle and the other customers to glance in his direction – obviously trying not to stare at this unusual-looking stranger – before resuming their conversations. But the little room is filled with warmth and firelight and the delicious smell of baking. There’s a tiny Christmas tree in the corner and fairy lights strung around the walls. He feels almost tearful with the relief of it and tries not to notice the way they have lowered their voices, as though he is somehow untrustworthy or frightening.

A slightly tubby dark-haired woman, young, perhaps in her thirties, emerges from the kitchen area with a tray and smiles at him. She shows him to a table just to the left of the fire and gives him a menu. Vic sits down and scans it gratefully, noticing that a pot of tea is just ten pence. He might have set his heart on chips, but the cakes nestled beneath their glass domes look so delicious. And then he sees it: ‘Carrot Cake – 8p’.

As he waits for his order to arrive, he tries to calm his racing thoughts. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his memory, he seems to remember that she spoke of an auntie, or perhaps it was her mother, who ran a tea room in the town. But that was thirty years ago, even more, and there was nothing to suggest that she would have gone into the business herself, let alone given it her name. It could be anyone’s tea room – Kathleen was a common enough name, after all – and the fact that carrot cake was on the menu was hardly surprising. It might have gone out of fashion after the war, but he has read somewhere recently that it’s been enjoying a revival among today’s whole-earth hippy folks.