‘Good afternoon,’ he said, taking off his hat as he approached, threading between the cramped grid of tables.

Her eyes widened and then darted past him towards the door again. ‘Afternoon.’ Her voice was all air.

‘I was passing, and saw you here. I’m working at the Courts today.’

‘Oh.’

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘I’ve ordered. Thank you.’

‘Could I …?’ He indicated the other chair at her table.

‘No. Sorry. I’m waiting to meet someone.’ Her speech was staccato, terrified, but she forced a dreadful smile. ‘Thank you very much,’ she added, turning her head so that she was looking away from him and towards the yellow-painted wall by her shoulder, its surface slick with condensation.

Jepson hesitated, and then sat at the table immediately behind, so that he was back to back with her, their chairs almost touching. He heard her tea arrive, and ordered a pot for himself.

‘Please could you go,’ said Vee, when the waitress had left.

‘I shouldn’t like to walk off without knowing why you look so frightened. Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘No.’

He could hear her spoon tinkling in the teapot, mashing the leaves.

‘I’ve often had conversations in this way,’ he said, turning his head slightly, talking along the wall, his speech clear but quiet. ‘I do it when I need to interview someone who’d rather not be seen to be talking to a reporter. You can put a hand to your mouth – I have pretty good hearing, despite everything.’

‘I don’t need you to stay, Mr Jepson.’

‘What if I give you my promise that if the person you’re waiting for arrives, I’ll leave immediately and say nothing at all, then or in the future. Would that be acceptable?’

She didn’t reply, but he took the silence as assent, and when his tea came, he ordered a jam roll and custard, to give himself an excuse to stay longer. And he speculated on why she might be frightened, though the exercise made him realize that despite almost a year in the same house, he knew nothing about Margery Overs beyond the basic facts of her everyday life; that she worried about money, loved going to the cinema, attended chapel apparently out of habit rather than obvious religious fervour, and danced to the wireless when she thought no one could see her; that she was a good needlewoman, and dressed well on very little; that she noticed everything; that she moved and spoke quickly and that even her laugh was abrupt. She was a widow, but never mentioned her husband; she was Noel’s aunt, but never mentioned his parents – the social and educational mismatch between her and the boy was striking, but so, too, was their closeness. As a landlady, she was unusual, lacking the territorial instincts of her breed; there was little division of the house between ‘mine’ and ‘theirs’, so that Green Shutters, despite its cavernous cold, felt far more of a home than the lodgings he’d lived in as a young man; far more of a home, in fact, than the flat he’d shared with Della.