I looked toward the window. Through a small crack between the curtains I could see the sky was already a pale gray. I looked back at the woman. My brain was playing catch-up. I swallowed. I opened my mouth.

I said, “Sorry.”

I sat up a little, propping myself on one elbow.

“When did you get here?” the woman said.

“Um,” I said, “last night. Just last night. I mean, only last night. What I mean is, I’ve only been here one night.”

I sat up a bit more. Tiny deltas of lines ran from the corners of the old woman’s eyes, skirted the beak of her nose and dipped into the hollows of her cheeks. Her hair was white and as light and fine as spider’s silk. She looked worried.

I said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—” I pulled myself fully upright. I said, “I can go.”

She smiled and the rivers of lines lifted. “But, darling,” she said, “you’ve only just arrived, and I’ve been waiting so long.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and picked up my hand. Hers was as small and light as a child’s and clouded with blooms of pink and brown skin, under which the blue lines of her veins draped in knotty threads over birdlike bones. I sat very still.

“They hurt you,” she said, examining my wrist. Her hands worked their way up my arm, turning it gently to examine its deep purple bruises. She looked up and met my eyes. With her other hand she leaned forward and touched my cheek, then ran a finger along the edge of my shorn head. “They hurt you.”

I sat very still. Her eyes, red-rimmed and wet, moved between the two of mine.

She said, “But you’re here now. And you’d better get up because they bring the lunch so early.”

She patted my hand. Then she left.

I edged my legs out of the quilt and sat on the side of the bed. I was still fully dressed. The old lady had left the towel on the bottom of my bed. On the top of it was a toothbrush, still in its plastic wrapper. I got to my feet and remade the bed, trying to make it look the same as when I’d arrived. Then I stuck my head round the door. The landing was empty. I walked on tiptoes to the bathroom. I sat on the loo and looked at my pad. Now there was only a small amount of blood on it. I wrapped the thing in wads of paper and stuffed it deep into the bin. Now I had to flush the toilet, a sound that was going to be too loud, too real. I stopped, my hand hovering above the handle. I looked in the mirror and my dumb face looked back. I brushed my teeth. Then I took some more paper and dried the sink. I would need to leave everything exactly as it was. That was important.

Okay, I thought. And now I’m leaving. I flushed the loo, grimacing at the sound. I went back to the little room and picked up my school bag. I walked slowly down the main staircase, running my hand along the smooth wood of the dark banister. I could see the front door ahead of me. I thought, I’ll just go. Then I thought, okay, no, first of all I’ll say goodbye. And thank you. And then I’ll go.

I stood, listening. Other than a slow-ticking clock, the house was quiet. I took the last few steps down the stairs and stopped. I turned toward the kitchen.

The old lady was standing by the table and didn’t seem to notice me at all. She was fumbling with a metal tin opener, attempting to get it to grip on to a tin of cat food, the thickened knuckles of her fingers trembling with the effort. On the kitchen table were three more tins. I watched her for a moment.

“Here,” I said, “let me.”

She let me take the tin from her hands and I opened the lid. Then I did the other ones and helped her to carry all of them out to the porch, where the cats were waiting. I helped her to feed them. It was still early, after all. I wasn’t in a particular hurry.

I thought, I’ll go, just now.

I said, “Is there anything that I can do for you? I mean, anything you need doing?”

“Well,” she said, “I could really do with a cup of tea.”

I boiled the kettle and then we sat across the kitchen table from each other, our hands wrapped around matching brown mugs patterned with orange flowers.

“I can’t begin to tell you, dear,” she said, “how nice this is.”

I smiled. “Have you lived here for a long time?”

“Yes,” she said, “I think so.”

Her eyes moved into the distance, and for a long time she didn’t say a thing. Eventually she said, “Well, this is nice.”

We were still sitting there, both of us, at the table, when I heard a car pull up. Shit, I thought. My ears felt hot with listening. Then I thought, perhaps it’s just the postman, but, before I knew it, the front door was being pushed open.

“Hello,” a woman’s voice called. “Mrs. Laschamp.”

There were heavy footsteps in the hallway. I looked at the old lady, then at the kitchen door. Then I jumped out of my seat and dashed into the pantry. I held my breath.

“All right? Here’s your lunch, then. I’ll put it on the side.” The voice was very loud. “It’s Tuesday today, innit, Mrs. Laschamp? So it’s pork. You’ve got a mushroom sauce and that there looks like mushy peas.”

I put an eye to the crack of the pantry door. I could see the old lady still sitting at the kitchen table, while a large woman in a plastic apron unloaded a plastic bag of groceries. I could see the two mugs on the kitchen table, and, tucked just under one chair, my school bag.

“Then there’s a nice pink blancmange for your pudding, and some cheese and biscuits to save for your tea. Do you want to eat this now, or save it for a bit?”

“I think I’ll have it later.”

“D’you want me to make you a cup of tea before I go?”

“I’ve just had one, thank you, dear.”

“I’ve got it down you’re not meant to use the kettle, Mrs. Laschamp,” the woman said. “We don’t want you getting a nasty burn.”

“Somebody made it for me.”

“That’s nice.”

“I have a visitor.”

“Did you?”

“My sister.”

“That’s nice. Where’s she based, then?”

“I haven’t asked her yet.”

“That’s nice. I’ll just take yesterday’s plate, shall I?” Through the crack in the door I could see the woman checking her watch.

“Thank you, dear.”

“Right. That’s me done. That your list? I’ll be off.”

I heard the woman’s heavy footsteps retreating down the hallway, the door closing, then the sound of a car turning in the drive. Then silence.

I came out of the pantry. On the draining board sat a plate on which a few gristly-looking lumps floated in an oily puddle of gray sauce, alongside a thick scoop of pond-green mush. There was also a flaccid pink dessert in a miniature plastic bowl, a single slither of yellow cheese and two plastic-wrapped crackers. I looked at the clock on the wall. It wasn’t even nine o’clock.

“Is this okay?” I said. “I mean, does it actually taste all right?”