I walked home along the canal. At the lock nearest to Penny’s house two painted narrowboats were descending. There were people sitting on the roofs with their drinks and more people crammed into the little open apron around the tiller. Music and shouting and the steady throb of the engines echoed off the dripping walls of the lock and I could smell barbecue mingling with the thick water-green scent of the canal itself. There was the usual knot of spectators standing watching beside the wooden wings of the gates as the boats sank and the crew busily wound ropes round bollards and called instructions at each other. Above the lock fishermen were sitting with tubs of worms and cans of sweetcorn and greaseproof-wrapped sandwiches spread out beside them on the tufty grass at the water’s edge. As I passed, one man hauled out a tiny silvery sprat and an intricate pattern of concentric ripples ruffled the khaki surface. I rounded a corner, and as soon as I was out of range of the lock I was all alone. The water was dusty here, covered with a powdering of pollen from the elderflower bushes sprawling over the towpath railings, and it looked solid enough to walk on. Behind my shoulder the gaunt cages of the gasometers netted the fading blue sky. I walked under the railway bridge where the light was dim and on the inaccessible opposite side I noticed the rocky no man’s land where cardboard-box islands and stuffed supermarket bags indicated a dossers’ camp. For the time being, it was deserted. Water dripped from the metal spars overhead and pocked the dark canal surface.

A commuter train rolled across the bridge and even though I had heard the same sound a hundred times before, the sudden thunderous boom and the rolling echoes made me jump and almost cry out. I quickened my step and walked out into the sunshine again. Ahead of me a pair of helmeted cyclists rounded a curve and swept past, gratuitously dinging their bells. I walked on quickly, with weeds and dry grass brushing my legs, wanting to get home.

Jack was in his usual position. We went through the regular question-and-evasion routine while I put together some supper, transferred wet washing from the machine to the tumble dryer and gave the ironing basket a shake-out. As I was putting knives and forks on the table I pushed to one side the small pile of Ted’s belongings. The address book had been lying on top of the silk evening scarf and now it slid off on to the floor. I bent down to retrieve it, noticing that the floorboards under the table were dusty and well crumbed.