Looking round he saw an old woman dragging a bucket across the floor and holding a mop. When she realised that his eyes were upon her, she said in a throaty voice, ‘Oh, don’t mind me, dear. You carry on.’
While I was indulging in the ritual hand blowing that characterised my Christmas travels around the graveyard, I noticed a man who was by a grave which was two rows forward and three plots along from where I was.
They were in a shop together. It was Ryman in the Strand, opposite Superdrug. She had spent the day shopping in the West End. He had been at work. They hadn’t seen each other for more than twenty years.