Two women stood outside in the shadow of the overhang from the walkway above, for Mrs Davies lived on the ground floor of a block of council flats; a mixed blessing, for although it meant she had no stairs to cope with and need never worry whether the lift had been put out of order yet again, she was a sitting target for hit-and-run bell-ringers, letterbox rattlers, window-bangers and dog dirt. And worse. So far she had been lucky, but she knew better than not to keep her door on the chain.

The older of the two women spoke: 'Good afternoon, dear.'

'Yes?'

'We're from the Social Services.'

'Yes?'

'May we come in for a moment?' She was a pleasant-spoken woman in late middle-age, carrying an official-looking briefcase as well as a handbag, from which she produced a plastic-covered card with her picture on it. She showed this to Mrs Davies, who could just make out the likeness in the bad light of the overhang and through the narrow opening of the door.

'Just a minute, just a minute.' Flustered, she closed the door and slipped off the chain, then opened it again. 'The Social Services, is it? What do they want?'

'Nothing to worry about, dear. In fact, quite the reverse. Good news, we think you'll find.'

'Good news? Is it me allowances?'

'Something like that.'

'Well, you'd better come in.'

'Thank you.' Smiling, the woman stepped inside. Mrs Davies made her way back into the sitting room, where Radio 2 still sniggered away in its corner. The two women followed her, the second much younger than the first, a pallid girl with long brown hair reminiscent of the late John Lennon's, and carrying a zipped-up tote bag.

The older woman said, 'This is my colleague, Mary. I'm Mrs Black from the DHSS, group OAP B22 – that's a special group you won't have had dealings with before, which is why we're here. May we sit down?'

Mrs Davies dropped into her own chair and the others sat on the hard chairs by the table. Radio 2's announcer said it was three o'clock.

Mrs Black looked round the room. 'What a nice place you have here. Really cosy. Have you been here long?'

'Since they was built. He had his disability, see, from the wair. We was one of the first.'

'You must have seen some changes.'

'Changes? You wouldn't believe! When me and Mr Davies moved in there wasn't a tree nor a blade of grass. All builders' rubble it was and the plaster hardly dried out. Still, we was glad to get here. Bombed out me and the boy was, while my hubby was serving. In the Middle East, he was, Alamien, all that, Italy. Then right at the end he got his disability. Crossing the Rhine, that was. Months he was in hospital. He never got over it, not really.'

'Is this him?' Mrs Black rose and picked up a photograph frame from the mantelpiece. A bright, terrier-faced man with a forage cap acutely angled over large ears looked back at her.

Mrs Davies eased forward in her chair. 'That's right. And that's the boy.' She pointed to another frame from which much the same terrier face regarded her, but bare-headed.