'He's been using his money to buy me things,' said the old woman, but they all knew what the situation was.

'That's all right then,' said the neighbour, and went off to spread the news that the yeti was looking after Mrs Biggs as if he were her son.

And so that time went, a happy time, the best in Ben's whole life, looking after the old woman, even taking her clothes and her bedclothes to the launderette, cooking up dishes from frozen to feed her — but he usually finished them, for she ate so little. But it could not last, because all this time the money was going, going, and he soon had none left. If he wanted to stay there, with Mrs Biggs and the cat, then he would have to get more money and he did not know how. The neighbour, bringing in the pension money, carefully did not look at Ben, and he knew it was a criticism. The old woman did not criticise him, but lay and dozed, or sat and dozed, her hand so often pressing on her heart, saying, 'Ben, we could both do with a cup of tea, I am sure.'

He was hungry, for he was trying to eat as little as he could. It could not go on. He told her he was going to see about a job, and saw her sad little smile. 'Be careful, Ben,' she said. And Ben left: he had no home in this world.

He walked along a street — rather, his feet were taking him up this street, past theatres and eating places — and he was on the side he usually avoided, crossing over before he came to a certain forbidden pavement. This time he did not cross over. He stood outside the theatre which frightened him when it was noisy and full of people, and stood on an empty pavement looking across at a little street where there was a doorway.