Molly and husband, Ed have driven a longway to visit Steven, a man they don’t know but are beginning to wish they still didn’t…Track back to last week’s post to begin at the beginning…

He stares down. ‘I cared for her for a year. She likes to be in here, with me. We like to be together. We like the same TV programmes. Emmerdale, that’s one of her favourites; all the soaps. We love them.

I’m noting the use of present tense, nodding at him. Is he confused, part of him believing her to still be alive?

‘Did you have help with her care? Did anyone come in?’

‘They come three times a week; not always the same ones. Some of them are alright. I like it when they’re gone and it’s just Mum and me again. I can do anything they do, anyway. We don’t need anyone else.’

Ed coughs. I ignore him.

‘I tell you what, Steven. How about me making us all a cup of tea. Shall I do that? I expect I can find everything in the kitchen. Is it through there?’ I wave my hand at the hallway. Ed leaps up, springing into action.

‘I’ll do it! he blurts and strides from the room.

I plunder my thoughts for conciliatory phrases. ‘Was it peaceful? I expect she was comforted to have you by her side, wasn’t she?’

There is a painful silence, during which I notice his face is glistening with tears. I rifle in my bag for a clean tissue and place it in his lap before escaping to the kitchen, where Ed is opening and closing cupboards in a hunt for mugs. He turns when I enter.

‘For God’s sake! How much longer do we need to be here? The man’s clearly deluded and clinically depressed. There’s nothing we can do for him, is there?’

I refrain from questioning Ed’s psychiatric, diagnostic skills. ‘I promised Elspeth! I can’t just throw the flowers at him and run off!’

‘Well, we’re leaving as soon as we’ve done the tea- that’s if I can find anything to put it in. It’s a hell of a way to come for this kind of welcome. We’ll need to get back on the road soon.’

He’s right, of course. It’s a two and a half hour drive for us.

I find a glass jug in a cupboard and put the flowers into it as Ed withdraws some petite, flowery cups from a high shelf. He’s made tea in a brown, tannin-stained teapot, using leaves he’s found in an ancient, tin caddy. There’s some milk in the fridge which smells alright. I carry two cups back into the living room, where Steven hasn’t budged, and place one beside him on a side table. We resume our respective positions. I lean forward.

‘When’s the funeral, Steven?’ I ask him and he flinches as though he’d forgotten we were there.

‘Monday. Willdown Cemetery. Eleven o’clock.’ He sniffs.

‘Who’ll be there- apart from yourself, I mean?’

He shrugs…

Check in next Sunday for the third and final instalment of Visiting Steven. For more fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend and The Year of Familiar Strangers. Visit my website: janedeans.com