about it afterwards. Three of them had paperwork of their own somewhere that nobody had ever looked at.
One of them, a man called Royce, had a plot in a village forty miles away that his daughter did not know existed.
What happened to Alby.
He died on the third of March, 2026, at twenty past four in the morning, of being eighty-nine.
I was not there. He had told me not to do that — he was extremely firm about it, in the January, and he said: “Don’t you sit here. I’m not having you watching a clock.”
Fela was with him. She rang me at five.
He was buried at St Osyth’s in Harling on the seventeenth of March, in the half of the plot he bought in 1958, next to Nancy, exactly as he had set out in a form that cost nothing and took eleven minutes to
