Yet another pause. Carole hung on his words. Bill Shefford opened his mouth as if for further confidences. But then he changed his mind. Abruptly, he said, ‘Anyway, I’ve got to remove a gearbox’, and went through to the workshop.

It seemed to be taking an unconscionably long time for Billy Shefford to change the windscreen wipers on the Renault. Carole felt she should go through to the workshop to chivvy him up, but somehow she couldn’t. Her role at Shefford’s had always been that of the supplicant, the woman who knew nothing about cars and needed help. Playing that role ruled out the assertiveness she displayed in other areas of her life.

And she did need the new wipers. She’d noticed recently, particularly if driving after dark in the rain, that she couldn’t see very well. It was even worse when facing oncoming headlights. She hoped it wasn’t her eyesight, so she’d opted for a change of wiper blades before she made an appointment with the optician.

Was it age catching up with her? Eyes … and, of course, the knee. As soon as she thought of it, she felt a twinge and shifted her position on the plastic chair.

As ever, to avoid the ignominy of looking purposeless, she had The Times crossword with her, but she couldn’t settle to it that morning. Bill Shefford’s gloom seemed to have infected her own mood. She looked across at the coffee machine, wondering if it might now contain something drinkable. But, deep down, she knew that such miracles didn’t happen.

Suddenly, from the workshop, she heard a heavy metallic thud which coincided with a scream of pain. She rushed through the door from the office.

Billy Shefford and Frankie (whose hair was now jet black) were looking down with horror into the inspection pit, above which a substantial car crouched. Over their shoulders, illuminated by the pit’s sidelights, Carole could see the body of Bill Shefford, crushed by a large metal object.

Billy’s next words identified it for her. ‘The gearbox,’ he said in a voice taut with shock. ‘It fell on him. He’s dead.’

SEVEN

What happened next was something of a blur for Carole. Billy Shefford didn’t want to stay with his father’s body. Almost catatonic with shock, he sat silently on the threadbare sofa in the reception area, incapable of any action. It was Frankie who made some calls, presumably summoning an ambulance, though it was obvious that it would be doing the service of a hearse rather than of life-saving transport. Her voice was steady, but unnoticed tears smudged her mascara and made dark runnels down the thick make-up of her face. Carole had the inappropriate thought that, with the jet-black hair, they made her look like a Goth.