I followed the van as it weaved its erratic way through the backstreets of Deal. It faltered, then accelerated over a zebra crossing, stopping an old lady in her tracks. At the next traffic lights I caught it up. On its back window were two stickers. One said GIVE BLOOD and the other said STOP ACID RAIN. Typical, I thought: the bossy tone, the self-righteousness. It reminded me of her demand to Save the Trees while she was busy stealing my son. What could I do about blooming Acid Rain? It was so female, to make other people feel vaguely guilty all the time, like seasickness.

By the time the van stopped I had worked myself up to boiling point. I drew in, further down the street, and turned to watch her.

It was a back street, with a short parade of shops. She opened the back of the van and took out a packing case, which she carried across the road. Then she put it down and unlocked the door of a shop. It was called The Treasure Trove. She took the packing case in, then a moment later she reappeared and put out some boxes on the pavement. They looked like old records. She. changed the sign to OPEN and went back inside the shop.

I switched off the engine and climbed out.

Twenty-one

Twenty-one

‘How much for the Bo Diddley?’ I asked cheerily, holding up the record.

She was sorting out the packing case. ‘50p,’ she said, ‘if it was outside.’ She straightened up and turned. She paused, then she said: ‘I’m not really open yet.’

There was a silence. I was still standing beside the door.

She looked at me and frowned. ‘Christ,’ she said. ‘It’s you.’

I nodded. ‘Yep. It’s me.’

It suited her, to be thinner. Her face didn’t look exactly older, so much as weathered. She looked more interesting than her squarer, younger self—more lived-in. She would never be beautiful. Her orange hair stood up stiffly; it made her look more startled than she sounded.

‘Just passing by,’ I said. ‘Thought I’d say hello.’ I had to be genial; I had to tread carefully.

‘How did you know I was here?’

I shrugged. ‘I ’ave my methods,’ I said. ‘I verk for Reading Public Libraries.’

‘What?’

‘You ’ave two of our books.’

She sat down, heavily, at one of the tables.

‘You don’t look any older,’ she said.

‘Really?’

‘You look exactly the same.’

I didn’t know how to take this; I couldn’t pretend she’d said it with any warmth.

She lit a cigarette. It was a small shop, crammed with junk—coal scuttles, old photos, that sort of thing. It smelt like a suitcase does, when you haven’t used it for years and you’ve finally got the lid open.

‘You haven’t, by any chance, got a cup of tea?’ I asked lightly.