Dora Simon wasn’t a friend. Not even an acquaintance. It was forty years since he’d pushed himself into the scrum surrounding her that day as she’d crouched on the ground with her dress ripped and locks of red curls lying on the paving stones like boiled shrimps. It was the Red Cross that had given him her details, and he’d kept her address, at the time, meaning to write. But he never got round to it and then forgot he even had her details, until a couple of months ago.

Still, he was glad to hear that the woman was still alive. He presumed she was well, though none of them were spring chickens anymore. He’d be seventy himself this year. Fit as a fiddle, mind.

I’ll be back in Jersey in early May. If I may, I’ll drive up to your farm to make your acquaintance.

Why would she want to do that? He’d written to her once already, c/o the PO box number she’d given in the paper. The photograph is that of Dora Simons, or Simmons, a midwife. Last known whereabouts, Jersey, 1943. That’s what the old man had told Joe. What more did she want?

‘No.’ Joe said it out loud. He didn’t want to make the woman’s acquaintance. It was hard enough living with himself as it was. A bit of a recluse, that’s what they said about him. A bit of an eccentric. Well, that suited him fine. He had the farm, he had the birds, he had fresh air and food. He kept himself clean, if not always tidy. His trousers were old and held up with binder twine, but there was wear in them still. His jacket was torn, but he had another for town and a black tie for funerals. He shaved twice a week and that was enough. He didn’t want any more company than he had already. Spying and prying. Busybodies. Ghouls. He did not want to meet a stranger who’d stir up memories.

But he owed it to Geoffrey.

For how had this Barbara woman come across Dora Simon’s photograph, if she didn’t have something that might be of interest to the old man?