He gazed out at the tracks and thought of Amy, who had used Waitrose, especially when they had special offers. The freezer was full: she would be working her way through it without him. Perhaps Charlie had organised another celebration meal, and they’d clinked glasses at his absence from the table. Monica had used a supermarket out of town, and Elizabeth? It didn’t matter, but now he couldn’t move his feet.

They had sat at her table – Monica’s table, not Amy’s. Did it matter who was who? Were they interchangeable now? Monica liked fish, and they’d spent an evening poring over a brochure from a supermarket that specialised in frozen food. It had come through the door and there were photographs of salmon, bream and haddock fillets. Prawns, king prawns, cod and trout – you could buy them as they were, or in sauces, and you could almost smell the sea. They had gone out to the store the next day, and bought six haddock steaks for three pounds.

‘My word,’ they’d said. ‘Very tasty.’

‘This is good,’ they had agreed. ‘Oh, this is a meaty fish. Crikey. How much was this? A bit of butter and it’s… this is… This is amazing.’

Ross-on-Wye was the place they went together once, and somehow Monica had chosen the worst bed-and-breakfast in the country, imprisoning them both in a small, mean room with two single beds. They found out too late that the guttering over the window was broken, which meant the rain came down hard and splattered on the sill. They wouldn’t have cared on a fine day – but that night a rainstorm hit, and above the nagging, sawing wind was the gushing of water. He had lain awake, not deserving Monica’s patience, and she had begun to suspect that. They both yearned to be home, away from each other – and yet their friendship survived, because they both needed somebody to phone.

Why do two adults of the opposite sex who like each other not sleep together, when they are both single? Why are they not drowning the sounds of the storm with joyous, experimental sex? Why isn’t one of the beds straining and heaving, the legs scraping the floor until the neighbours can’t stand it and hammer on the wall?

A short train had appeared, and was choosing its platform. Michael looked at the driver as it approached and saw how focused he was – the last thing he wanted to do was run somebody down, even if they wanted to die.

‘Pornography,’ said the old man suddenly. ‘That’s what they’re looking at, half the time.’

‘What?’ said Michael.

‘Aren’t they? Parental controls? Do me a favour.’

‘How old’s your great-grandson? You said he was twelve.’

‘Twelve, yes. No… eleven.’

‘And he’s looking at pornography?’

‘No.’

‘Sorry, you said he was.’