‘I was stationed in Germany and my wife was flying out to meet me. The plane crashed.’

She said thoughtfully, ‘You must have married your second wife after you left the army.’

‘I did,’ I said. ‘But how did you figure that?’

‘Any woman who can’t stand the pace of living with a man who works for an insurance company would never be an army wife.’ She put dishes into the oven and closed the door. ‘Dinner in thirty minutes. Time for another drink.’ She came over and picked up my glass. ‘For you?’

‘Thanks.’

As she mixed another shakerful of martinis, she said, ‘What was it like when your wife died?’

‘Bloody,’ I said. ‘It gave me a hell of a knock.’

‘I know.’ She was suddenly still and when she finally turned her head towards me her eyes were bright with unshed tears. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Bill. You understand.’ She slammed down the shaker and said passionately, ‘This damned house!’

The tears came, flowing freely, and I knew what the matter was. Plain loneliness. The reserve that stopped her communicating her inner feelings to her friends melted with a stranger. She was open with me because I would be gone within days and she would probably never see me again, never have to look into my eyes and know that I knew. People who travel receive a lot of confidences from total strangers who would never dream of relating the same stories to their friends.

But there was something else. As she said, I understood: I had been there too, and this made a common bond.

So she cried on my shoulder – literally. I held her in my arms and felt her body tense as she wept. I said the usual incoherent things one says on such an occasion, keeping my voice low and gentle, until the storm blew itself out and she looked up at me and said brokenly, ‘I’m … I’m sorry, Bill. It just … happened suddenly.’

‘I know,’ I said.

I saw her become aware of where she was and what she was doing. Her arms, which had been about me, went limp and to save her embarrassment I released her. She stepped back a pace and touched her tear-stained face. ‘I must look awful.’

I shook my head. ‘Jill, you’re beautiful.’

She summoned a smile from somewhere. ‘I’ll go and clean up and then we’ll have dinner. Don’t expect too much: I’m a terrible cook.’

She was right. She was the only woman I knew who could ruin a frozen meal. But it was another thing that made her more human.

II