He kept food coming from the kitchen garden. He cooked; he cut up meat on the Missus’s plate and put tiny forkfuls in her mouth. He poured her cold cups of tea away and made fresh ones. He was no carpenter, but he nailed fresh boards over rotten ones here and there, kept the saucepans emptied in the main rooms, and stood in the attic, looking at the holes in the roof and scratching his head. ‘We’ll have to get that sorted,’ he would say, with an air of decision – but it wasn’t raining much, and it wasn’t snowing, and it was a job that could wait.
John got the shortest end of the stick with the arrangement honestly
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