‘You all right there, love?’ came a voice just then and Frankie turned to see a woman emerging from the neighbouring house, unlocking the small blue Micra on her drive in a businesslike manner. She looked to be in her fifties and was giving Frankie a beady once-over, as if she could smell trouble.

‘Oh,’ said Frankie. ‘Yes. I was looking for Harry Mortimer.’ It felt peculiar to actually say his name aloud after all this time; to speak of him in terms of being a real person, rather than as a shadowy concept. A mystery. ‘Does he still live here?’

‘Harry? He certainly does. Although you’ve missed him today; they’ll be down at the village hall for hours yet.’ She eyed Frankie with barely disguised interest. ‘I’ll be there myself later, if you want me to pass on a message?’

Yeah, right. Like that wouldn’t be the most inappropriate thing ever. ‘It’s okay, I’ll . . . The village hall, did you say?’

‘Yes, darling, it’s over on Main Street, opposite the Co-op.’ She jerked a thumb up the road. ‘Left at the top there, you can walk it in a few minutes.’ Then she hesitated, one hand on her car door as if she wanted to ask something else.

‘Thanks,’ said Frankie quickly, just as the woman’s mouth was opening again, a question no doubt forming on her lips. ‘Thanks very much.’

Still alive then, and at the village hall. Right you are, she thought, striding off to find him, before her courage could drain completely away.

‘Let me begin,’ said John Mortimer, ‘by welcoming you all here this afternoon. It’s great to see so many friends and family members together, and it’s a testament to Mum and Dad that virtually everyone who was invited today was able to join us in celebrating their Golden Wedding anniversary. Thank you very much for being a part of it, and for sharing this special day.’

A crowd of faces beamed back at him, some more flushed than others, thanks to the free bar. There were four grown-up Mortimer children, four grandchildren, countless cousins, Harry’s pals from the bowling club and Jeanie’s entire knitting circle (eighteen opinionated women, plus one snake-hipped young man whom they all mothered shamelessly). There were babes in arms, old school friends, various people who’d been taught piano by Jeanie over the last four decades (even if nowadays many of them wouldn’t know a semi-quaver if it bit them), a clutch of Harry’s old colleagues from the High School, and, in a grubby changing room behind the scenes, a stout man wearing a lot of fake tan was stripped to the waist, gluing on a chest wig.