Stan was a man. Bigger than most. But not in a way that made you look up to him or fear him. Stan was a man who lived mostly in the background. No one knew what he thought or felt.

Like most men, he was a creature of habit. He never came downstairs in his dressing gown. He always arrived fully dressed in his trousers, shirt and cardigan. I never once saw him wear a t-shirt or jeans. While she made us hot buttered toast, Stan sat in his chair at the table by the window. He always sat one side, and she always sat the other. Every morning he had the same breakfast. Half a grapefruit and a cup of tea. He was a polite, neat eater. Though his hand shook as he lifted the spoon to his mouth, we tried not to look.

He always shaved before he…