‘Not really,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to see her … Talk about old times.’

‘Haven’t seen her for yonks. Seven years.’

‘Where did she go?’

She picked up her son’s toilet paper and took it to the bin. ‘Lancaster,’ she said. ‘No, Leicester.’

‘Leicester?’

‘She joined some women’s thing.’

‘What sort of women’s thing?’

‘Some shared house, I think. I’ve probably got the address.’

She went into the surgery. I heard her saying ‘Where’s my frigging Filofax?’ The phone rang and somebody answered it; the buzzer went.

I sat there gazing at a poster saying What Is This Thing Called Plaque? I felt a peculiar sensation. It was as if I had put a blank square of photographic paper into some developing fluid and a picture was starting to appear, fuzzy and vague.

The door opened and a lady arrived, wearing a sari with an overcoat on top. Pam came out of the surgery to greet her; she looked brisk now.

She opened her address book. ‘Forbes, Fitch,’ she said, scanning the Fs. ‘Foyles Bookshop, why did I ever want that? Featherstone. 12, Talbot Close, Leicester. No phone number.’ She closed the book. ‘Must go.’

‘Wait!’

‘What?’

I took a breath. ‘Was Edward … I mean …’

‘What?’

‘Was he a nice child?’

She smiled. Then she nodded. ‘Absolutely gorgeous.’

Down the far end of the shops there was a newsagent’s. I paused outside. It was then that I made up my mind not to go back to Peckham that day. I thought: what the heck.

I went in and bought a copy of Mad, for my son. And then I picked up a Beezer book, because I used to love that when I was eleven. But then I decided that I was too superstitious to buy the whole book at £2.95. It wasn’t the money; it was the hope.

So I bought a Beezer comic instead, at 20p, and went back to the coach. A watery sun had come out; on the pavement, the broken glass glinted. I realized I was whistling What is this thing called love? I wished Pam luck in Australia. I felt reckless and light-headed, but I convinced myself it was only because I was skiving.

It was back to the M1 for me. In an hour and a half I would be in Leicester. This funny thing called love … I put the engine into first and squeezed the coach past the parked cars towards the end of the street. I was just turning into the main road when somebody sneezed.

I jammed on the brakes. The noise had come from behind me. A car hooted and I pulled into a bus stop. Far back in the coach I heard a rustle.

Some kids from the housing estate must have got in; God knows what they’d do to Reg’s upholstery.

I walked to the end of the coach. Another sneeze. Somebody was crouching on the floor. I grabbed the legs and pulled.

It was Butler.