It was surprisingly pleasant, idling in the semi-shade, doing nothing in Paul’s company. A couple of the cats slithered over the wall and picked their way around our feet. Paul rubbed the head of the slightly less feral-looking one while the other leaped on to the windowsill and stared into the gloom within. I heard the sound of some fracas in the distance, yet again announced by the blare of converging police or ambulance sirens, but nothing disturbed the drowsiness of Turnmill Street. I dozed for a while and woke up with a start, remembering the first evening when Jack didn’t come home. It was comforting to be sitting only a few feet from him, even though I couldn’t see what he was doing. I wondered if he might, just possibly, be finding my presence a comfort too. Either way, I reasoned, sooner or later he or Audrey – or both of them – would have to emerge.

I walked round the corner to find a pub that was open and as I strolled back I saw a small movement behind the tattered curtains at an upstairs window. Jack was checking up on my whereabouts.

Paul was talking to the two young men I had met the other day. They were both in Spandex cycle shorts and tight vests, and their bikes were resting against the party wall. He introduced them as Tim and Gavin.

‘I was just saying to your friend, we do worry about the old lady,’ the slightly less muscular one confided to me.

‘We offered to do some tidying up out here in the garden for her, didn’t we, Gav? But she wouldn’t let us. She’s very protective of her privacy. I’m surprised she’s letting you sit around on her property, as a matter of fact.’

‘We’ll have to see what happens,’ I said neutrally.

‘Well, you want your boy to come home, don’t you? Is there anything we can bring you, by the way, while you’re out here?’ Gavin asked.

‘A cup of tea would be very welcome, thank you,’ Paul said.

They brought out a tray, with a big white teapot with ‘Earl Grey’ lettered round the lid. It was, too. With lemon. Tim and Gavin sat on the wall and while we were all drinking our tea Gilly and Andrew came back.

‘It’s a street party!’ Gilly cried. ‘I’ve always said we should do one for the Jubilee or something but Andrew wouldn’t hear of it, would you, darling?’ She had clearly enjoyed a few Pimmses, and her husband’s face was a dark reddish colour that was at odds with his polo shirt.

‘I’m going to come and join you,’ she said suddenly and tripped across the geological strata of cardboard in her sandals. ‘Bring out a bottle of nice white vino, Andrew, and a few glasses.’