In between splutters, he said, “It wasn’t me. It wasn’t what I said. It was you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I said hello and then you looked up at me. And you said – ”

She got it. She remembered. The laughter kicked up from her stomach and filled her like helium. She slapped her hand to her mouth. “Of course.”

“You said – ”

“That’s right. I – ”

They couldn’t say it. They couldn’t get it out. They tried, but each time they opened their mouths it was so hilarious they were hit by a fresh wave of helpless laughter. They had to grip hands to steady themselves.

“Oh God,” she spluttered, “oh God. It wasn’t even very witty.” She was laughing and trying not to, so that it came in sobs and squeals. Then another laugh whooshed up behind her like a huge wave, catching her unawares, and erupting into a violent hiccup. That made it even worse. They hung on to one another’s arms, and bent over, shaking with how funny it was. Their eyes were streaming; their faces ached. “People will think we’re having a joint heart attack,” she roared.

“You’re right. It wasn’t even funny,” said Harold, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief. For a moment, he looked sensible again. “That was the thing, love. It was ordinary. It must have been funny because we were happy.”

They caught hands again, and walked towards the water’s edge, two small figures against the black waves. Only halfway there, one of them must have remembered again and it passed like a fresh current of joy between them. They stood at the water’s edge, not letting go, and rocked with laughter.

EOF