You don’t like Laura. ‘Thanks a lot,’ said Martin, ‘I’ll try them latish.’ He started back towards his car.

‘They’ve got the most amazing dog,’ the girl said, following him. ‘Nicholas has trained him to “Die for Eastbourne”, it’s a hoot!’

‘Thanks again.’ Martin got into his car. The Old Rectory, the girl had written in biro, Uttoxeter Road. Why Uttoxeter? he pondered. This place is miles from there.

‘Do be careful of the dog.’ The girl stood by the car. ‘It bites.’

‘Kind of you to warn me.’ Martin smiled at the girl.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘not at all.’ She stared at Martin, thinking that he had a kind face, a mouth which curled up at the corners, slaty grey eyes. She wondered whether he was married. ‘I am going to study art,’ she said. ‘I’m too stupid for anything else.’

‘I don’t think you are stupid. Who put that idea in your head?’ Not waiting for an answer, Martin started the engine and drove away. Glancing in the mirror he saw the girl semaphoring that he was heading in the wrong direction. He turned the car at the next intersection and drove back past where she still stood on the steps of the concert hall. As he passed her he waved and shouted, ‘Silly me,’ but he thought, Silly interfering bitch; he had liked the green dress.

He circled back to the town (the umbrella could wait) to park in a multi-storey car park. From the top deck of the car park there was a magnificent view of the river, the cathedral-sized church, the market square and distant downland. It was a sign of the age, he thought, as he ran down the steps to the street, that car parks like lavatories often had the best views and, like lavatories, he thought, holding his breath, they stank.

Gaining the street, he slackened his pace to saunter through the town. In the wine shop he dawdled over his choice; in the delicatessen he bought truffle chocolates; in the fruit shop, figs. As he shopped he chatted to the shopkeepers; in the flower shop he chatted while he bought regale lilies. Lastly he spent half an hour browsing in a second-hand bookshop, searching for a book long out of print and engaging the shop owner in desultory converse. Then, laden with carrier bags and the bouquet of lilies, he collected his car and drove fifteen miles to visit his aunt by marriage, Calypso Grant.

‘It’s not often,’ said his aunt, ‘that I get a visit from the Bengough branch of Hector’s clan. Come in and share my lunch, you are just in time. Shut up!’ she said to a large dog which was barking, bowing and wagging its tail. She reached up to kiss Martin’s cheek. ‘Come in out of the cold.’

‘I brought you a bottle or two, some chocs and some figs.’ Martin returned her kiss. ‘And these.’ He presented the lilies.