3.41. I felt blank. I suppose it was the shock; I hadn’t caught up with myself yet. Now I was standing here, I felt numb. Funnily enough it reminded me of my wedding day, standing with a vague hangover, telling myself I must feel something quickly, some intense emotion, because in a moment it would be over and they’d turf us out of the registry office. In the coach it had been natural to dream about Edward, and imagine what he would look like. Now I was here I didn’t even know what to say. How would I recognize him? I would just watch which boy walked down to number 12.

I shivered, and fastened up the neck of my anorak. A few more women had joined the group now. I almost felt familiar with my original two, who were talking about somebody called Oonagh and how they knew she wouldn’t bring back the videotape. I thought that of course I wouldn’t buy anything like an ice-cream, but the van was there for later, and if it was gone there was always the corner shop. And then I made up my mind and hurried across to the shop—it was just the downstairs room in the last house, really, and with hardly anything on the shelves, it wasn’t like London here—and bought him a packet of Rolos and a Mars Bar. It was 3.52.

I was just coming out when somebody stepped up to me. I moved out of her way, to let her through the door, but she grabbed my shoulder.

‘I live here,’ she said. She had a strong Leicester accent; for a moment I couldn’t understand her. With her free hand she pointed at one of the houses. ‘I live in that house and I’ve been watching you,’ she looked at her watch. ‘For an hour.’ She took a breath. ‘And I’ve been reading my evening paper recently.’

I thought she must be talking to somebody else, but there was nobody behind me.

‘I said I’ve been reading my paper. Know something? You’re quite a celebrity by now.’

‘What?’

‘I saw you buying those sweeties.’

The women at the gates had turned and were gazing at us. I cleared my throat.

‘You going to pretend otherwise?’ she demanded. Over her apron she was wearing an overcoat in a horrible shade of maroon. She took another breath. ‘Now you’re going to tell me you’re a father here.’

‘I am!’

‘Who are you waiting for?’

‘Well, sort of.’

‘Sort of, he says.’ She drew a breath; there was perspiration on her forehead. Everyone was silent, listening. ‘Men like you, you’re worse than animals, you’re—’

‘Edward Featherstone!’

‘What?’

‘I’m waiting for a boy called Edward Featherstone!’ I cried.

‘And what class is he in?’

‘He’s in …’ I stopped. ‘I don’t know.’

‘He doesn’t know!’

‘He’s eleven.’

‘Getting younger, aren’t they. You pervert, you—’

I shouted: ‘He lives here!’

I pulled her round so we were facing down the road.

‘He lives in number twelve!’