Terry was about to speak again when his phone started to ring, and the ringtone was a little trumpet playing ‘Colonel Bogey’. He couldn’t find it at first, so the volume rose and Michael listened to the opening bars, twice through, the hearse driving steadily out of the marina to the strange, bubbling soundtrack – the tugboats would be hooting, and the harbour master was inconsolable. There were floral tributes fashioned into diggers and ships: Farewell King of Plant Hire was written in five hundred white carnations. Bon Voyage, Dad!

Eventually, the man found his phone, and Michael heard the voice of Terry’s wife. He assumed it was his wife, and whilst he couldn’t quite hear what she said, he soon picked up the fact that she was concerned about an estimated gas bill she had received that morning. It sounded as if she and Terry both preferred to avoid estimated bills, and had tried to notify the company so as to register their own meter reading. Something had gone wrong, and Terry’s wife needed reassurance, which Terry gave loudly and surprisingly kindly. Michael found himself wondering if they were intimate still, and sexually active. He didn’t want to imagine anything of the sort – he wanted a drink – but he could hear her anxiety and it sounded as if Terry cared for her.

Did he care for her?

Of course he cared for her! Why wouldn’t he? She sounded just a little fragile, and he could imagine the man steadying her as she stepped onto the terrace to look at all the boats. They probably had separate beds, or even separate rooms, and Michael was in the apartment with them. He didn’t want to think about their private lives, but the man had sat back, and he seemed to be sprawling in the seat. The image came like a horrible visitation: he saw the woman bringing Terry to orgasm, and he couldn’t stop the sequence playing for the man’s mouth was open and his eyes were goggling. She was on the train, under the table on her poor arthritic knees: how would she ever get up? She’d strike her head and her mouth would be unwiped, as unwiped as his own…

He closed his eyes. At last, the picture changed back to the terrace, and they were all simply staring out to sea – the wife, Terry and Michael – leaning on the rail.

Terry would die first, and leave her to her grief. Her children would support her, and she’d move closer to them. She would take out one of those affordable funeral plans, for herself.

Would she meet someone else? Would she meet Michael?

‘Terry spoke so highly of you. I know you only had a short time together on that train, but you made quite an impression.’

‘How?’

‘The way you listened to him. You were so attentive, Michael – are you coming back to the house?’