But she kept on sipping, and my hand stayed cold around my pint.

Derrick Pearce looked over from the bar. He wore a bright purple shirt and tie, and pointed shoes.

I got up to go to the toilet, and when I came back, Derrick was in my seat, leaning over Kathryn, whisky glass in hand. She was smiling, and her hand was at her neck. ‘Why don’t you come and dance, love?’ he was saying.

Kathryn looked up at me.

‘Just one dance,’ said Derrick, twisting round to give me a wink. ‘Howard won’t mind. Will you Howard?’

Kathryn’s eyes searched my face as she took a sip from her gin and tonic.

‘I would mind, actually, Derrick.’ I tried to smile at her. ‘I would mind a great deal. But it’s up to Kathryn.’

She put down her drink and, without even looking at Derrick, she stood up and led me to the dance floor. We danced together all night, my hand resting in that warm little hollow at the bottom of her back.

two

Spring, 1966

The film’s sharp edges scratched at my hands. I held its end up to the light and looked through the perforations along the top before tucking it in the slot. Soon Kathryn’s image would be there, captured on my film.

I’d bought a camera in Ivor Field’s Photographic Supplies in Darvington. An Ilford Sportsman. It was second-hand but looked as good as new; they’d thrown in a black leather carrying case for nothing. The man in the shop, who called me ‘Young Man’, showed me how to unscrew the case from the camera’s bottom. But, as he pointed out, this wasn’t really a necessary skill, as you could easily take as many pictures (or ‘shots’, as he called them) as you liked with the strap still safely hooked around your neck. You need never risk dropping it.

The case was new leather. I brought it to my nose and inhaled: it smelled fresh, a bit like the earth I’d dug round my new roses the day before. I loved the sound the button made as you pressed it to take a picture (‘a firm touch is what’s needed, Young Man,’ said the man in the shop, ‘as I’m sure you know’). A definite click, no going back. There were dials around the lens, with numbers marked on. I had a booklet which told me all about what they meant. As long as I could focus, the man said, I could take a picture. It was just a matter of getting Kathryn within the central square, framing her, and closing the shutter. Click.

It was a Sunday afternoon in early spring. Kathryn and I had been courting for a few months, but this was the first time we’d arranged to meet at my house.

I remember the light coming through my curtains that morning; how I knew it would be warmer that day from the way the sun seemed to penetrate right through the material.