‘If they don’t love each other, then it’s like there’s no bottom to the world. Nothing to stand on.’

‘So?’

‘I used to build these garages for my cars,’ I said. ‘And these farms for my farm animals. I always loved doing things with my hands. I practically rebuilt the house in Orpington.’

‘Then along came the big bad wolf, and blew it all down,’ she said. The needles clicked. ‘Must’ve been jolly flimsy to begin with.’

We were silent. ‘I’m glad she and I never had any children,’ I said. I thought of Edward: had he fared any better? Did he have something to stand on?

‘My mother wanted another child,’ I said. ‘And when I was three she found she was pregnant again. She was thrilled; my father was thrilled. They wanted a girl this time.’ I paused, and lit another cigarette. ‘Months passed and it all seemed to be going fine.’ I stopped.

They cast this foggy glow, arc-lights; have you noticed? At night, motorways seem mistier, and dimmer. And always the same. You might have travelled one mile or twenty, it doesn’t make any difference.

‘Well?’

I looked at the little lights in my radio. I didn’t speak for a while. Then I thought why not? I took a breath. ‘When she was six months pregnant she had a miscarriage. Nobody was there except my father. My mother was in the bathroom. He wrapped this little object in a tea-towel, he couldn’t quite bring himself to use newspapers, and then he put that into an old pillowcase, and he took it out to the allotments, out the back.’ I paused. ‘It was the middle of the night, and nobody saw. He didn’t bury her in his allotment because he was worried in case he dug her up again. So he got his spade and dug a hole near the hedge, where they put the rubbish. It took so long, he said, to dig it deep enough, it took hours. And then he put the bundle in.’ I stubbed out my cigarette. ‘Neither of them ever mentioned it again. He never even told her where he had buried it. Her. My sister.’

I had stopped the coach. We were parked on the hard shoulder. At some point I had switched off the engine. It was dead quiet; the needles didn’t click any more.

‘They never really touched each other again after that,’ I said. ‘He was building his garage, and he had his bowls—he was the captain. It’s amazing how you need hardly be together at all, if you’re married. And then there’s the telly.’ I spoke to the steering wheel. ‘When I was a child I thought all parents had twin beds. Once, he said something to me.’

‘What?’

I stopped. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Go on.’