One damp silvery afternoon an old lady came home from walking her dog and found a boy sitting in her lounge room on the floral settee. The boy hadn’t been invited, so the old lady was surprised to see him. It wasn’t a large boy, and he looked annoyed and bored, as if he had been waiting for her for some time. The lounge room was cold, and the tip of his nose had turned softly pink, which made the old lady feel sorry for him. “You should have lit the fire,” she said, and pressed a button and twisted a dial, causing flames to jump up like can-can dancers inside the silver chest of the heater. Her guest didn’t answer, but looked more aggrieved: being a boy of a certain age, he had a taste for suffering manfully, and preferred not to be given advice. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked him. “I’m about to make a pot.”

The boy thought for a moment; then said morosely, “Yes please.”

The old lady was relieved to hear that he knew about please and thank you. At least he had some manners. She hung up her cardigan and went to the kitchen and filled the kettle with water. The kitchen was clean and lined with green cupboards; on the speckled bench were rectangular tins for flour and coffee and rice. On the windowsill was a posy of drooping fuchsias from the garden. Although she couldn’t see him, the old lady knew that her curious visitor was still sitting on the settee, hands folded in his lap, waiting and watching for her. She tried not to wonder what he intended to do or say. She determined to keep her thoughts very blank, so she wouldn’t race ahead of him or turn a wrong corner in her mind. She couldn’t help smiling at the thought of him seated so casually in her lounge room. It was odd, and also somehow flattering, as when a stray cat chooses your house to call home.

While the kettle boiled she busied herself putting biscuits on a plate and pouring milk into a jug; while the tea was brewing she dressed the pot in its cosy for warmth; then carried the pot, the cups, the jug, the sugar bowl and the biscuits into the lounge on a tray.

The boy was sitting on the verge of his seat and looking down at the dog, who sat by the heater staring intently back at him. The dog was small and long-legged, with a rough coat the colour of winter and treacle-coloured eyes, and a spiky moustache of wet whiskers after rummaging in the grass. “What’s your dog’s name?” the boy asked, without glancing up.

The old lady – whose name was Matilda – put the tray on the little glass table that stood between the chairs, and poured the tea into porcelain cups. “His name is Peake,” she said. “Do you take sugar?”

“What sort of dog is he?”

The tea flowed fragrantly from the teapot’s spout, the colour of conifer sap. “The proper sort, I suppose. He quarrels with cats and chats with strangers and keeps himself clean. He buries bones and keeps tabs on his enemies and sleeps under my bed. That sort of dog.”

Rather sharply, as if he detested having to explain himself, the boy said, “I meant what breed is he, what kind?”

“Who knows?” Matilda shook her head. “The scruffy kind, the busybody kind, the kind which likes his dinner on time. He’s something of everything, the way a dog should be. Do you take sugar?” she asked again.

“I don’t know.” The boy looked suddenly thin with confusion. “Should I?”

“You would probably prefer it.”

“Yes please, sugar,” he said, as if he’d known all along.

Matilda stirred sugar into both cups. The milk turned the tea a pressed-rose brown. Quiffs of white steam waltzed and vanished. The boy returned to studying Peake. “You should have called him Max,” he said. “Max is a good name for a dog.”

“A good name for some dogs,” Matilda agreed, “but not for Peake.”

“Does he bite?”

“Occasionally, I’m afraid. There are certain cats, and certain people, of whom he particularly disapproves.”

The boy smiled – as if he too disapproved of certain things, and was occasionally tempted to bite them. Peake was watching the visitor closely, neither wagging his tail nor growling but simply staring. He watched the boy take the cup and saucer that Matilda passed across the table; his ears, angular as envelopes, twitched when the spoon clinked on the cup. The boy looked appreciatively into the tea, but pouted when Matilda offered him the biscuit plate. “I prefer biscuits with jam,” he said.

“So do I,” said Matilda. “There were some in the tin, but I ate them. There’s usually only Peake and myself, you see, so we eat all the fancy biscuits and leave the plain ones for last. I’d have bought a cake or some tarts if I’d known we were expecting a visitor today.”

The boy only crinkled his nose, and did not apologize for his uninvited presence. He took a biscuit and ate it miserably, as if it were made of clay. While he crunched on the splinters, Matilda closed the door that led to the kitchen and the door which led to the hall, so the lounge room was made snug and private, like the cabin of a boat. Then, with some relief, she settled into her armchair, which was her favourite chair and the one she always sat in, although it was not very different from the one on which the boy perched. The chairs faced each other with the little table in between, their broad flanks turned away from the television with its piked legs and wooden shell. Every evening Matilda sat in this small square room with Peake, listening to the radio or reading a magazine or playing records on the gramophone. They did not have many visitors, and never any who were children. And yet, although it was completely peculiar to sit in her chair and see a fussy boy sitting opposite her, Matilda somehow felt that things were as they should be. It seemed that she had seen this exact boy sitting exactly where he sat countless times before. She said, “I’m sorry about the biscuits. I wish I had something nice to give you. But you’ll be warm soon, and maybe happy.”

The boy only shrugged, for he was nearing the age when it is embarrassing to admit you can be happy. Matilda guessed he was eleven or twelve. His hair, which was pale, was fine, and not tidy; there was still enough childhood in him to plump the cheeks of his scowly face. His eyes were lashy, and grey as cinder. He wore a loose red collarless shirt with three unfastened buttons at the throat. It was a flimsy garment for such a damp day – Matilda wondered if his mother had told him to take his coat, but he’d been too vain to obey. His trousers were the colour of charcoal, and showed, on the knees, signs of dirt. On his feet were a pair of cotton socks and good scuffed lace-up boots. He did not smell of anything, yet nor was he perfectly clean. He was not fat or puny, short or tall, dainty or strapping, but medium in all ways, a boy from the illustrations in an annual. He looked the kind who felt cooped up indoors, who preferred to be outside climbing trees and building forts and having sword fights with sticks, who endeavoured to be injured when playing boisterous sports so he could then be nobly brave. He looked the type who’d sooner suffer a painful illness than spend an afternoon drinking tea with an old woman. Matilda liked all these things about him very much. He was like a strong bold bird that had flown into the room and, finding itself cornered, was bored, but unafraid.

Before she could think of anything to say, the visitor lowered his cup, wiped his mouth with his wrist, and regarded her through grave eyes. His voice was grim when he announced, “I have bad news for you.”