Raymond’s mother lived in a neat terrace behind the newer houses, a row of tiny pebble-dashed semis.
It was social housing; the streets here were named after obscure local politicians.
Those who had purchased their homes had fitted UPVC double-glazed front doors, or added little porches. Raymond’s family homestead was unmodified.
Raymond ignored the front door and walked around the side of the house.
The back garden had a shed with net curtains in the window, and a square of green lawn marked by clothes poles.
Washing flapped on the line, pegged out with military precision,
a row of plain white sheets and towels and then a line of alarming elasticated undergarments.
There was a vegetable patch, with tropically lush rhubarb and neat rows of carrots, leeks and cabbages.
I admired the symmetry and precision with which they had been laid out.
Raymond pushed open the back door without knocking, shouting hello as he walked into the little kitchen.
It smelled deliciously of soup, salty and warm, probably emanating from the large pot that sat on the hob.
The floor and all the surfaces were immaculately clean and tidy, and I felt certain that,
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