Another song started. The door opened. She stood there, pulling off her dark glasses. It wasn’t Lesley at all.

‘Pardon my attire,’ she said. ‘But I was just under the lamp.’ She blinked, and rubbed her eyes. ‘You look all white.’

I cleared my throat, and paused.

She went on: ‘Dunno why I do it.’

‘Do what?’

She jerked her head towards the garage. ‘Catch him noticing the difference. Go on, say I’ve got a lovely tan.’

She was about thirty, and pink.

‘You’ve got a lovely tan,’ I said.

‘Trouble is, the bits round the eyes. Never mind.’

I took a breath. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but—’

‘Come in. I’m Shirley. Can’t shake your hand or me towel’ll fall off.’ She showed me into the lounge. ‘You come about a trailer?’

I paused. ‘Not really. I’m looking for somebody called Lesley.’ I sat down in an armchair. ‘It was Featherstone but she’s probably married by now and changed it.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Lesley.’ She pulled off her turban and shook her head. Her hair was bleached yellow, with black bits underneath.

‘You know her?’ I asked.

‘I knew her all right. The woman with the bust like Dolly Parton.’ She paused. ‘Shame that her middle was the same size.’

‘Where is she?’

‘They’ve gone now.’ She jerked her head at the back window. ‘They were in number 3. Back in a tick.’

She left the room. I went to the window and looked out. Four trailers stood in the back garden. Cypress trees fenced them in. A concrete path led to some dustbins, and a greenhouse patched with hardboard, and an aviary full of budgerigars. There was no sign of life, except for a line of washing; overalls blew in the wind—too late, the legs kicked. Too late.

I had to picture Edward here now. He had lived in a caravan; I had to imagine everything all over again. My brain ached; I had to dismantle my old Graceland, with the pillars. It had never been real anyway. I had to shut it off, like scenery, and fix this new place in my head instead. I had done it so often recently I felt congested.

The front door opened and a man came in, wearing overalls and wiping his hands on a cloth. He stopped and looked at me.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m Desmond. I was looking for Lesley and Barry.’ It sounded odd saying Barry as if I knew him.

The man said: ‘You got any money for me?’

‘What?’

‘He owed me for a calor gas cylinder.’

Shirley came back into the lounge, transformed. She wore a pink leather miniskirt and a fluffy sweater; she had put on some make-up in double-quick time. She looked younger now, and much prettier.

‘Jim,’ she said, ‘He’s looking for—’

‘He told me.’ Jim was older than her. He looked worn out. ‘Never paid for that glass either.’ He indicated the back window.

‘The kid broke his greenhouse,’ she said. ‘He didn’t mean to, Jim, he fell against it.’