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buy some new ones. I want a sample.’
    He pauses and glances at her. She can see the sweat on his forehead, the thoughts passing across his face, the quick turning away when he meets her eyes. He looks ridiculous in his navy suit and wellington boots.
    ‘It might be better if you took your boots off,’ she says. ‘It’s awfully hot, and you might slip.’
    He doesn’t take his boots off. He climbs the ladder cautiously and, after fiddling for a while near the eaves, brings down a tile. Then he puts the tools just inside the front door. He pulls the ladder down and starts to fold it up.
    ‘Hang on,’ she says. ‘Maybe I haven’t finished.’
    He stops, shrugs, then puts the ladder into the house as well.
    ‘Thanks a million. My ankle could be all right now, for all you know.’
    He has a puzzled expression on his face. She can feel herself becoming irritated again. Why does he have to be so silent?
    ‘Say something,’ she says. ‘It’s not fair, me making all the conversation. I don’t mind if you want to shout a bit. We could shout at each other, see who’s the loudest.’
    He avoids her eyes.
    She sighs. ‘Please yourself.’
    He’s completely still. She’s seen a street performer who paints himself grey and stands motionless long enough to give the impression that he’s a statue. Then, after a time, he twitches once, or winks, moves his head. People stop inamazement until a crowd gathers, waiting for his next movement. They always give him money before leaving.
    ‘You could earn a living with your skills,’ she says. She tries moving her foot again and it still hurts. ‘I can’t walk,’ she says. ‘I’ll have to ring for a taxi to take me to the station. I don’t suppose you drive?’
    He doesn’t shake his head, but he’s not offering.
    ‘No, of course not. That would be too good to be true. Could you fetch my bag? It’s just inside the door—by the hall table.’
    He fetches the bag and hands it to her. He’d make a good butler.
    She digs out her mobile from the bottom of the bag. ‘I don’t suppose you know the number of a local taxi firm?’
    He shakes his head.
    ‘No, I thought not.’
    She rings directory enquiries, then arranges for a taxi to pick her up at the gate.
    The man watches her, then goes back to the house and pulls the door shut. He takes the key out and hands it to her.
    ‘Can you help me down to the road?’ she asks.
    They stumble awkwardly back to the gate, with Doody leaning heavily on his arm. He’s not very good at it, because he lurches around too much and they have to keep stopping to recover their balance.
    ‘Great,’ she says, when they get there.
    His shopping trolley is still waiting for him.
    ‘I hope you don’t have anything frozen in there.’
    But he does. She can see the fish fingers and the frozen chicken breasts. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘You’d better send me a bill.’
    He seems perplexed and walks off, pushing his trolley along the side of the road, avoiding the cobbles. Just like that, without a backward glance.
    She watches him in amazement. Is he just going to walk away? ‘Hey!’ she shouts.
    He stops, but doesn’t turn round.
    ‘Thanks!’ she shouts. ‘All right? I appreciated the help.’ He makes her feel guilty.
    He starts walking again, away from her.
    ‘If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have needed the help!’ She feels better.
    A taxi drives up from the other direction and stops at the gate.

Chapter 3
    43 Westside Close,
Blenheim Rd,
Birmingham.
19/5/04
    Dear Mr Straker ,
    I was surprised to receive your letter out of the blue as it were. My poor Felicity (Fliss, as I liked to call her) has been dead for nearly 25 years and not a day goes by without me thinking of her. We was very close. There was a train crash. You might remember it was a London to Birmingham train. 78 dead but only one close to my heart .
    She was a lovely girl. I don’t know if someone like you in your profession as it were would remember seeing her