We were speeding along the A1, the sky streaked crimson. Lit by the sun’s last rays, passing factories looked as molten as the Promised Land. Bare trees flashed past, soon to be engulfed by the night. I felt a surge of exhilaration. Suddenly I was sixteen again, dreamily in love with a boy who wrote me a poem.

The tall trees, through understanding grieving,

their long black branches weaving,

a dream across the lonely sky.

This dream is the web of God, and I, the fly.

Ungrammatical, but lovely. Goodness, I hadn’t thought about him for over fifty years. Maybe he was dead.

I glanced furtively at Calvin. Why was I drawn towards this man? Beefy. Thickish thighs. A tanned, leathery face with eyes that had spent a lifetime squinting into the sun. Sandy hair sprouted from his freckled slabs of hands holding the wheel. His leather jacket was mushroom-beige, with too many zips. As I said, he wasn’t my type, and I suspected he was not to be trusted. But here I was, sixteen again and just as foolish; just as senselessly weak with desire.

We talked non-stop. I’d been silent for so many months that Calvin released a stopper and the words poured out. I can’t remember everything we said but we darted from one thing to another, veering off this way and that, like a dog sniffing a new scent and bounding into the bushes. Robert De Niro one moment, mothers-in-law the next. I remember a lively disagreement about tinned versus fresh custard. The whole thing got a bit silly.

‘What’s the most depressing word you know?’ he asked.

‘Chutney.’

‘Because you hoped you’d been given a pot of marmalade?’

‘Exactly. Who needs chutney? So what’s yours?’

‘Bus Replacement Service.’

‘That’s three words.’

‘Fair enough. What’s your three words?’

‘More Stalls Upstairs.’

He groaned in agreement. ‘Selling chutney.’

‘Scented candles.’

‘Bric-a-brac.’

‘Bric-a-brac!’

‘I once overheard a stall-holder telling a customer, “It’s more valuable without its saucer.”’

I burst out laughing. I hadn’t felt so larky since Azra. How I’d missed our conversations.

Finally, however, it had to end. It was dark when Calvin pulled into Talbot Avenue and stopped outside my house. I asked him in, and turned on the lights.

‘Streuth, you been burgled?’

I looked around. ‘I’ve been busy,’ I said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? A drink?’

‘It’s frigging freezing in here.’

‘The boiler’s not working.’

‘Want me to have a look?’

I told him it was upstairs in the bathroom. And off he went, bounding up the stairs two at a time. A chatty man. A helpful man. Good Lord, he was whistling.