all along and it was not.
What happened is that on the morning of the sixteenth I was looking for my black shoes, which are in that cupboard, and I opened the door, and it was there, and I stood in a back bedroom and understood that I was about to drive to a cemetery and bury a man I had known for eleven months while leaving my husband of twenty-six years on a shelf behind the Christmas decorations.
So I put him in my bag.
And after Alby’s, when everybody had gone to the pub in Harling and I had said I would follow on, I walked to the other side of that cemetery with a woman called Pauline, who had been at her own desk in 1991 and who did not ask me one single question.
There is a corner there, by the wall, with a bench and
