The girl reached for the papers and flipped them over. “The writing’s on the other side. It’s a letter from your husband. It came to the garage. My friend warned me to fetch it before the boss saw.”

Maureen read in silence, weeping over each sentence. The loss that had wrenched them apart twenty years ago was as lacerating and incomprehensible as if it was happening afresh. When she finished, she thanked the girl and folded the letter, running her nail along the crease. Then she posted the letter back inside its envelope. She sat, very still.

“Mrs Fry?”

“There’s something I need to explain.”

Maureen wet her lips and let the words come. It was a relief. Moved as she was by Harold’s confession, it felt right to share the facts at last about David’s suicide, and the grief that had split his parents apart. “We shouted for a while. I blamed Harold terribly. I said awful things. That he should have been a better father. That the drinking was in Harold’s family. And then we seemed to run out of words. It was about that time I began talking to David.”

“You mean he was a ghost?” said the girl. She had clearly seen too many films.

Maureen shook her head. “Not a ghost, no. More like a presence. A feeling of David. It was my only comfort. I said little things at first. ‘Where are you?’ ‘I miss you.’ Things like that. But as time went by, I said more. I said everything that I didn’t say to Harold. There were times when I almost wished I hadn’t started; but then I worried that if I stopped talking, I would somehow betray David. Supposing he really was there? Supposing he needed me? I told myself that if I waited long enough I might see him. You read about things like that in those magazines at the doctor’s, while you’re waiting. I wanted to see him so much.” She wiped her eyes. “But it never happened. I looked and looked but he never came.”

The girl stuffed her face into a tissue, and bawled. “Oh God, that’s too sad.” When she emerged her eyes were so small and her cheeks so red her face looked peeled. Strings of saliva looped from her nose and mouth. “I’m such a fraud, Mrs Fry.”

Maureen reached out her hand for the girl’s. It was small as a child’s, but surprisingly warm. She gave it a squeeze.

“You’re not a fraud. It was you who began his journey. You inspired him when you talked about your aunt. You mustn’t cry.”

The girl let out another sob and plunged her face back into the tissue. Raising her head again, she blinked her poor eyes and took a shuddering deep breath. “That’s just it,” she said at last. “My aunt’s dead. She went years ago.”