‘Derek, that you?’ she said.
‘Hello Ma!’ he said, picture framed by the doorway in his army uniform which had been pressed to an inch of his life, ‘could murder a cuppa!’
As he rubbed his ashen hands above the red coals of the fire, she shuffled to the kitchen in a pair of oversized green woollen socks. Returning with a teapot for two, he was gone; just like every Christmas. Then she cried, just like she always did.