I could think of many things to say next but they would have been unkind. It was evident she disliked any reminder of Russia Road or Jonny, of the roofs or the borderline, and worse, of criminal activity. Even less would she care to be reminded of Wim. Yet it must have been to touch on these subjects at least that she had summoned me here. What else did we, who were so different and who had grown even further apart in the intervening years, have to discuss? What else did we have in common? Did she, I wondered, expect me to begin it? And if she did, how?

I was about to make some mild reference to W9, a simple inane remark perhaps about the chaos caused by the new traffic lights at Maida Hill, when she said very quickly, “I want to ask you a favor, Clodagh. Will you do me a great favor?”

The classic answer is the one I gave. “That depends on what it is.”

“It’s easy. It’s not at all difficult. It’s just that . . . Oh, I do find it very hard to say.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Take your time.”

The singsong lilt was back. For a moment she was the old Liv again. “Those days,” she said, “when we were all together in that place, me and that boy—what was he called, not the very fair one?”

“You mean Jonny?”

“Right. Jonny. Oh, Clodagh, I’ve practiced saying this to you, I’ve—what’s the word?—rehearsed it, but I’m still getting in an awful mess. Clodagh, my husband, Angus that is, Angus, he knows nothing about any of that, what we did and those boys and that other boy, the one who was crazy about the—the roofs, he knows nothing about any of it. He’s rather—well, he’s rather—”

“Prudish? Stuffy? Idealistic? Puts you on a pedestal?”

“Something like that, yes. All those, Clodagh. If he knew those things, he’d never feel the same again about me. He wouldn’t—love me so much. I’m sure he wouldn’t.” She said “vouldn’t” and her coral-pink lower lip trembled.

“I don’t know him,” I said. “I’ve never spoken to him and I doubt if I ever will. Why should I tell him?”