And then it occurred to her that he was probably with Rex. They were probably talking about lawn cutting, and the weather. Ridiculous man. She replaced her shoes by the front door, and the car keys on their hook.

Maureen crept into the room that had become known over the years as the ‘best’ one. She could never enter it without feeling she needed a cardigan. Once they had kept a mahogany dining table, and four upholstered chairs; they had eaten in here every evening with a glass of wine. But that was twenty years ago. These days the table was gone, and the bookshelves stored albums of photographs that no one opened.

“Where are you?” she said. The net curtains hung between herself and the outside world, robbing it of colour and texture, and she was glad of that. The sun was already beginning to sink. Soon the street lamps would be on.

♦

When the phone rang, Maureen shot into the hallway and plucked up the receiver. “Harold?”

A thick pause. “It’s Rex, Maureen. From next door.”

She looked about her helplessly. In her rush to answer the phone, she had stubbed her foot on something angular that Harold must have left on the floor. “Are you all right, Rex? Have you run out of milk again?”

“Is Harold home?”

“Harold?” Maureen felt her voice shoot upwards. If he wasn’t with Rex, where was he? “Yes. Of course he is here.” The tone she had adopted was not at all her usual one. She sounded both regal and squashed. Just like her mother.

“Only I was worried something had happened. I didn’t see him come back from his walk. He was going to post a letter.”

Devastating images were already firing through her mind of ambulances and policemen, and herself holding Harold’s inert hand, and she didn’t know if she was being completely foolish, but it was as if her head was rehearsing the worst possible outcome in order to pre-empt the full shock of it. She repeated that Harold was at home, and then before he could ask anything else she hung up. She immediately felt terrible. Rex was seventy-four and lonely. All he wanted was to help. She was about to call back, when he beat her to it and the phone began ringing in her hand. Maureen reassembled her composed voice and said, “Good evening, Rex.”

“It’s me.”

Her composed voice rocketed sky high. “Harold? Where are you?”

“I’m on the B3196. Just outside the pub at Loddiswell.” He actually sounded pleased.

Between the front door and Loddiswell there were almost five miles. So he hadn’t had a heart attack and fallen into the road. He hadn’t forgotten who he was. She felt more indignant than relieved. Then a new terrible thought dawned on her. “You haven’t been drinking?”

“I’ve had a lemonade but I feel brilliant. Better than I’ve felt in years. I met a nice chap who sells satellite dishes.” He paused as if he was about to deliver portentous news. “I’ve made a promise to walk, Maureen. All the way to Berwick.”