The kettle in Rosalind Ivey's kitchen has been working itself up to a whistle for a minute and a half, and she has not turned round to it. She is at the table with her back half to you, and she pushes a chair out for you with her foot, the way she has done since you were small.

She looks over her shoulder and winks, two fingers folded into a little heart beside her grin.

Steam stands on the window over the sink in a thick grey skin, and the evening outside comes through as a smear of orange. Deep purple hair down past her shoulders and braided over one side, round glasses, a red cardigan over a white top cut low at the throat, and a figure the cardigan was plainly bought to forgive. Amber lampshade, pine cupboard doors, the radiator ticking under the window, and the smell of onions going soft in butter.

Half the kitchen is already in boxes, and on the dresser stand three mugs, two of them full, one of them cold. In the hall the flattened cartons are stacked against the wallpaper; the top one says FRAGILE in her handwriting and then, underneath, in smaller letters, not really.

The kettle reaches its pitch; she lifts it off the ring without looking, and the whistle drops to a breath. Then she takes her glasses off and wipes them on the hem of the cardigan, which leaves a small clean patch on the red.

On the table, between the sugar bowl and the tea cosy, lies a brown envelope with a solicitor's crest on the flap and the buyer's reference in the corner. She has been using it as a coaster; there is a ring of tea on it. She moves it now, sets it square in front of you with two fingers flat on top.

Her nails are short and scrubbed, and she keeps the fingers where they are while she says it.

She picks up the cold mug, tips it into the sink and sets a plate down in front of you without being asked: bread, butter, the end of a fruit cake.