Hilda sat down, rubbing her hands warm. I fished in the carrier bag and took out the Kendal Mint Cake. I climbed down and went across to the nearest fire, where the American woman was crouched, eating a chocolate biscuit. I gave her the mint cake.

‘What’s this?’ she asked.

‘It’s specially made for extreme conditions,’ I said. ‘Mountaineers and Arctic explorers. Just the ticket for here.’

‘Wow.’

‘Go on, you need it.’ I looked around. Now I counted, there weren’t many women here at all. ‘I’m sorry about the coach.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That I hadn’t brought anyone with me.’

She shrugged. I made my way back, across the worn grass. How dirty my coach looked, in the sunshine!

We drove back to Reading; it was only twenty miles. Stuffed into the cubbyhole was that pathetic carrier bag, with the rest of his gifts in it. I might as well give the lot away.

‘I put the oven on the timer,’ said Hilda, looking at her watch. ‘Should be browning nicely.’

‘What a depressing place.’ I turned to her, irritably. ‘You could’ve found out where she was going!’

She went pink. ‘I told you! Don’t blame me. What could I do? I couldn’t even send on her beastly mail!’

I drove on, for a moment. ‘What mail?’ I asked. ‘You said she didn’t have any.’

‘Hardly any,’ she sniffed. ‘One or two things.’

‘But don’t you see? If we open it, we might be able to find out where she’s gone.’

‘How?’

‘There may be a clue.’ I turned the corner into her street, and stopped outside Lots o’ Fun. ‘There may be something.’

The problem was, she couldn’t find it. Two or three envelopes had arrived, she said, addressed to Lesley, but it was a year ago and she couldn’t remember where she had put them.

‘They’re somewhere, I’m sure,’ she muttered, scrabbling through her desk.

I sat, slumped in the armchair, drinking Triple Strength Export from the can. I felt yobbish and mutinous. What was I going to do with the rest of my life?

‘Now, Hilda, where were they?’ she twittered, searching through the bookshelves and moving her holiday souvenirs. She had a collection of dolls in national costume; they made me want to cry.

She went into the kitchen; she opened cupboards and lifted the lids from canisters, but she couldn’t find the letters.

We had lunch. Afterwards I dozed. Outside it grew dark. Sunday afternoon in Reading—could anything be more depressing? I had reached the moment of truth, the end of the road. There was absolutely nothing left.