“And water sprays out of the sprayer,” shouted Jacob from upstairs.

“I don’t care what you think, Dad.” Katie was marching up and down the patio waving her arms around like a mad person in a film. “It’s my life. I’m going to marry Ray whether you like it or not.”

Precisely where George was, or what he was doing, it was hard to tell.

“You have no idea. No idea. Ray is kind. Ray is sweet. And you’re entitled to your own opinions. But if you try and stop this we’ll just do it ourselves, OK?”

She seemed to be staring at the ground. Surely George wasn’t lying down?

When he ran out of the room, Jean assumed he’d spilled custard on his trousers or smelt gas and Katie had simply jumped to conclusions. Which was par for the course. But clearly something more serious was happening, and it worried her.

“Well?” asked Katie from the far side of the glass.

There was no answer that Jean could hear.

“Jesus. I give in.”

Katie vanished from the window and there were footsteps down the side of the house. Jean whipped open the fridge door and grabbed a carton of milk. Katie burst through the door, hissed, “What is wrong with that man?” and strode down the hallway.

Jean replaced the milk and waited for George to reappear. When he didn’t, she put the kettle on and went outside.

He was sitting on the patio with his back against the wall and his fingers pressed to his eyes, looking for all the world like that Scottish man who drank cider and slept on the grass outside the magistrates court.

“George?” She bent down in front of him.

He took his hands away from his face. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Is something wrong?” asked Jean.

“I just…I was finding it hard to talk,” said George. “And Katie was shouting a lot.”

“Are you OK?”

“I don’t feel terribly well, to be honest,” said George.

“In what way?” She wondered if he had been crying but this seemed ridiculous.