A photograph from 1958 caught my eye. A young man, standing outside The Green Man watching the procession go by, seemed remarkably familiar. I looked more closely. The hair was dark and swept back from his face, and he had a closely cropped beard. The facial hair aside, and possibly thirty years younger, he bore an uncanny resemblance to the man I had seen in Mrs Barley’s garden. His father – or even grandfather, maybe? It was possible. Then he must be from the area. I wasn’t sure if this was a comforting thought or not.

Aware I was becoming distracted from the task in hand, I typed a few more paragraphs, saved the document and snapped the laptop lid shut. I was still tired and the effort of constructing coherent, let alone interesting, sentences was proving taxing. It was pointless trying to continue.

I stood up and stretched. It was approaching three o’clock and I felt as if my day had been largely wasted. I hated feeling so lethargic. I’d just have to write it off and hope for a better night’s sleep later. My mobile pinged and I checked to see who was texting me. It was a message from Reggie.

‘Long time no c! In town this wkend. U up 2 a visitor?’

*

My best, and truthfully only friend, Reggie – short for Régine – had never struggled to find men. With her shock of dark curls, caramel skin, courtesy of her mother’s Antiguan heritage, and limpid brown eyes, she oozed confidence and seemed to draw the opposite sex – and even her fair share of other girls – like a magnet.

Reggie and I had met at sixth-form college, and hit it off straight away. I suppose we were polar opposites: she, outgoing and confident; me, the typical wallflower, the quiet swot in the corner. But she always did her utmost to bolster my self-esteem, and was fiercely protective of me if anyone ever took the mickey or made an unkind remark.

The first time I saw Reggie was during our inaugural English lesson. That morning, I had been hopeful of not finding any familiar faces amongst the other students pushing their way through the corridor. School had generally been something of an ordeal for me, and I hoped fervently that sixth form might be better if I knew no one. Maybe I could reinvent myself.

I was first into the classroom. The teacher, a scruffy, fortyish man with receding hair and a greying beard, was shuffling papers on the table in front of the whiteboard. He looked up briefly.

‘Morning! Take a pew. We’ll have the introductions when everyone’s arrived.’