Schmidt had taken a fancy to Mary, and vice versa. Who could blame her? He is awfully sweet, especially when he puts himself out to be gallant. John didn’t want to leave us either. I wasn’t sure what he had in mind. General aggravation, maybe. It certainly aggravated me when he turned Schmidt’s attention from antiquities to country music. One question was enough. Schmidt was delighted to expand on the subject

‘Yes, yes, it is a most interesting type. I am indebted to Vicky for introducing me to it. I am thinking of taking up the guitar.’

‘It would be better than listening to you sing,’ I said rudely.

Schmidt had become impervious to my insults. He thinks I’m just teasing. (And maybe he’s right.) ‘You sing, then. The one about the pillow that is dying.’

‘A moribund pillow?’ John’s eyes were as blue and innocent as forget-me-nots. ‘I must hear that one.’

We ended up in the lounge, gathered cosily around the piano. Schmidt plays a little, enough to pick out tunes. He gave us all three verses of ‘The Sinner’s Death,’ including the dying pillow. (‘A slight error in the reference of the adjective,’ as John described it.)

There are a lot of bluegrass songs about prisoners and chain gangs and sinners. Schmidt set out to prove he knew them all. A sensitive man might have found that theme a trifle awkward, but not John. His sense of humour is offbeat at best, but that day he was in a particularly strange mood. He kept egging Schmidt on. What Mary was thinking I could only imagine. She certainly was not amused.

The lounge had emptied rapidly as soon as Schmidt began singing. Since I didn’t want to leave Schmidt alone – especially with John – I remained. In order to demonstrate my cool I even joined in on a couple of choruses. I am rather proud of my ability to slide from one note to the next. I was giving my all to ‘Little Rosewood Casket’ when I realized that Schmidt had dropped out (he always breaks down during ‘Little Rosewood Casket’) and that John was singing harmony in a flat, nasal tenor that bore a suspicious resemblance to the voice of the great Sara Carter.

That brought me back to earth with a painful thud. We had sung – a weird medley of Bach, German pop tunes, and Christmas carols – to keep awake the night a blizzard trapped us in the abandoned church. It was the most memorable night we had spent together, and I include other occasions which were memorable for quite different reasons. It was the night of all nights I didn’t want to remember.

The lyrics didn’t help either. ‘Take his letters and his locket, Place them gently on my heart . . .’ I broke off in the middle of a glissando. ‘We’d better go and dress for dinner, Schmidt. It’s getting late.’