Heads turn and eyes fix themselves not upon the ghost of Stephen Cox but upon a dishevelled young man ill-dressed for a sombre Memorial Service on a drenching day. He is sodden and unshaven, and his grey-white muddy training shoes squelch with water. He is out of breath, for he has run all the way from Leicester Square tube station. His white shirt sticks to his brown body. His fair hair is dark with sweat. He carries a plastic sports bag emblazoned with a crouching tiger. He wipes his streaming forehead with his arm, and gazes wildly around him at the questioning faces, searching for the one he knows and loves and fears. The organist halts, hesitates, and continues, as Konstantin Vassiliou makes his way to his mother’s side.

The eyes of the curious remain fixed upon Rose and Konstantin Vassiliou as the tune of ‘As pants the hart’ fills the assembly. It is a strange reunion. His whole body is still heaving with effort, and her demeanour is torn between tears and laughter. He puts his arm around her, squeezes her, and randomly picks up a hymn book. Disapproval, relief, embarrassment and joy chase one another across her features. The prodigal son has returned. He slips his arm around her waist. She is ruffled, distraught. How can she settle back into the dim mood of a Memorial for a man she never knew? She allows him to hold her, but pulls away from him a little as disapprobation struggles with delight. How can he have done this to her? Has he done it all on purpose? How long ago was this fuse planted, this plot laid? Her heart beats wildly, as the organ wheezes its familiar tune. Konstantin smells amazing. He smells of all the nations and airports and seaways of the world. Rank human odours rise from him, triumphing over wet wool and dry rot and Brasso and furniture polish and the ancient British bone dust of lepers eight centuries dead.

Slowly, as the service proceeds, through poetry and pieties, to its conclusion, the rapid breathing of Konstantin is calmed, and his overstoked energy subsides. Rose wriggles free from his clasp, and gazes sternly ahead. Konstantin takes up a more subdued and penitent posture by her side. Rose summons her resources of maternal indignation and, as the last strain dies away she rounds upon Konstantin. As murmurs and whispers and greetings and partings break out around them, she hisses at him crossly.

‘Where do you think you’ve been all this time? And did you have to make such an entrance?’

Konstantin tries to look innocent. ‘Didn’t you get my message?’ he mutters back. ‘We sent a radio message through Singapore. And you must have got my card from Ende. Didn’t you get my card from Ende?’

‘Which card are you speaking of?’ asks Rose, tartly. This year’s or last year’s?’