“Yeah?” A hoarse, cracked voice. A suspicious tone. A thick Cockney accent.

“Oh. Hello. Is that...Vera Armstrong?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Oh, yes, sorry, this is Terry Shepherd.”

“Never heard of you.”

“No. No, of course not, sorry, I’m not explaining myself very well.”

“No you’re not.”

“I’m a friend of Iris’s.”

“Who?”

“Iris. Your daughter.”

“I know who Iris is, thanks very much.”

“Of course, I just... I was trying to explain...”

“Has something happened to Iris?”

“No! Not at all. It’s just...well, we’re in town tonight, and I thought you’d like to meet up with us?”

The silence that greets my suggestion is a long one. So long that I suspect the line might be disconnected.

“Hello?” I say.

“Yeah, I’m still here.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Does Iris know you’re ringing?”

“Well...that’s the thing you see. I thought...it could be a surprise.”

Vera laughs like a witch; high-pitched and cackly. I have to hold the phone away from my ear. She stops suddenly, as though she’s been cut off. Then she says, “What you say your name was?”

“Terry. Terry Shepherd.”

“Okay Terry, Terry Shepherd. Do you know what the road to hell is paved with?”

“Em...is it...good intentions?”

“Ten out of ten, my love. And I’m sure your intentions is good. But you mustn’t know my Iris very well if you think she’ll be pleased to see me.”

I think briefly about saying how it’s never too late for second chances, but then I don’t.

Instead, I say, “We’ll be at the Hippodrome tonight. From about 7:30 ’til, I’m not sure, say half ten anyway. It’s in Leicester Square.”

“I know where the Hippodrome is, lovie.”

“Of course you do. Sorry.”

“Is you gonna tell Iris you phoned?”

“No.”

“Good. ’Cos the thing is...”

“I’m just about to run out of change, Mrs. Armstrong. So, hopefully we’ll see you tonight? Looking forward to it.” And I hang up without saying goodbye. Not even once.

I step out of the phone box and into the street where any remaining warmth from Jennifer’s undivided attention is quickly snatched away by a brisk gust of wind generated by a passing bus, as is my straw hat, which Jennifer insisted I wear out of the shop. I watch it sail through the air and land in the middle of the road, where it is immediately squashed flat by the might of an SUV with wheels that wouldn’t look out of place on a tractor.

I teeter at the edge of the pavement, jerking my head left, right, left again, waiting for a lull in the traffic, and when I eventually retrieve the hat, it is pancake-flat and black with tire marks.

If this is a Sign, it is not a good one.

10

Be particularly careful of features that may hinder your view of the road ahead.

I can’t remember the last time I was at a concert. Even when I was young, I didn’t go to many. Too many people in too small a space and the condensation dripping down the walls and the queues for the toilets and then, when you got to the top of the queue, the toilets themselves. A veritable haven for germs and often no toilet paper or soap and only a dribble of cold water with which to defend yourself.