‘Ellen … urn … I want …’

‘Not yet,’ she said and smiled with half her mouth, a mirror image of my own smile. ‘Soon, maybe, but not yet.’ She reset the rug around her legs. ‘D’you want to go home? Back to Thurlestone? You’ve been gone a while.’

Again the panic fluttered. ‘No - no, I don’t. I want to stay here.’

‘Good,’ she murmured. ‘Thank you.’

The moment I got back here I headed straight for the whisky bottle and poured a large shot, downing it before I even took off my coat. The dogs looked disgusted.

24 August 1979

John was married this weekend, a curious, low-key affair. They married in Chelsea Town Hall, a cavernous, rather gloomy place. Harry provided the only splash of colour — still wearing his red braces over an ever-extending belly. I didn’t know John had invited him and when I turned to see him trotting, late, towards us, I was delighted. John was watching, scanning the crowds, and we both saw Harry at the same time, both broke into a run to meet him. I watched John thundering down the steps, jacket flying, a laugh bursting like a snowstorm from his black-black beard, eyes flashing. In his ear he was wearing a small gold ring — the first sign of vanity I have ever seen in him. He was roaring with delight, and suddenly I saw him as a pirate. Swinging from the ropes, scimitar or cutlass between his teeth, bellowing as he leaped from gunwale to gunwale putting the fear of God into his enemies. What must people have thought — a bearded giant, a veiled middle-aged woman and a stout, balding man, dancing a jig of sorts on the pavement? We had to break off when Sonja and Ellen called to us, pointing to their watches.

John was twenty when the five of us stood at the kerb after the ceremony, trying to hail a cab to the restaurant I had booked on Beauchamp Place. Twenty. Even younger than the young woman who had looked into Dai Davies’ eyes with surprise while her parents smiled benignly on such foolishness. And now I felt I was doing the same.

We were shown to our table, the waiter literally backing away as John thudded into a low lintel, banging his forehead, looking stunned before laughing. In his fine black suit he looked, frankly, terrifying and the waiter seemed relieved when he finally sat down. I’d ordered a bottle of Krug, and when I took off my hat with its veil to drink a toast, Harry looked at me, scanned my face, and smiled. He leaned over and kissed my cheek as John kissed Sonja’s flawless lips.

Harry took my hand. ‘Joan, how lovely to see you. You look very well.’

‘It’s true that I’m blessed with rude health despite my best efforts.’

‘And Special - will you just look at him! Dr W- W- Webster was right, then — six feet seven?’