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bit the Vicar leant his arm on the back of his seat and looking around him said:
    “You’ll see some changes in the town since you’ve been away, Mr. Carter.”
    “A few,” I said.
    “Yes,” he said. “Things are changing. But not quickly enough to my mind. One day, though, all this will be gone. And then, thank heaven, people will have somewhere decent to bring up their children. Somewhere they’ll want to go home to instead of the street.”
    I said: “Always assuming what they replace it with will be better.”
    “Oh,” he said, “but it must be. It’s bound to be.”
    “Is it?” I said.
    I looked at him. He had sandy hair and glasses and a yellow face. It was impossible to tell how old he was.
    We rolled down the hill to the cemetery. The day was bright and windy and low grey fluffy clouds raced across the thin sun.
    At the graveside apart from the Vicar and the digger and the undertaker’s men there was me and Doreen andtwo blokes who’d been waiting near where the coffin had been unloaded. One of them was about fifty, the other about twenty-two or -three. They looked like barmen and no mistake. They were neatest around the neck, with their clean white collars and neat knots, but the smartness tapered off the lower down their bodies you got and they were scruffiest round their feet. They stood there with their heads bowed and their hands clasped in front of them, a bit behind me and Doreen.
    I held her hand while the Vicar said the words. The grave-digger was unshaven and wore a big ex-army greatcoat with the collar turned up and all through the Vicar’s spiel he kept looking at Doreen, the dirty old sod.
    “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …”
    I reached down and picked up a handful of earth and gave some to Doreen. The barmen stepped forward and got some as well and we showered the lowering coffin. The barmen stepped back. The older one put his hand to his mouth and coughed and stood to attention and the younger one shot his cuffs.
    The Vicar led us into “Rock of Ages.” Doreen got past the first few words then shook and didn’t sing any more. The grave-digger went to work with his shovel. Wind whistled through my black mohair. A dozen or so rows away two middle-aged women in grey hats paused to watch as they picked their way among the headstones.
    And then that was it.
    I guided Doreen away from the grave. She stumbled as she took one look back at what she didn’t understand. The barmen stepped back to let us by. I nodded to them.
    We got to the cars. I looked towards the gates. A woman with blonde hair wearing a bright green belted coat was standing beyond the railings.
    “Is that Margaret?” I said.
    Doreen nodded.
    I looked across at the woman. She didn’t move. Doreen got in the car still crying.
    “Hang on a minute,” I said. I turned to the barmen who were walking in the direction of the cars, lighting up.
    “Can you wait?” I called.
    They looked at each other. The older one looked at his watch and nodded. I walked over to the gates. Margaret was still there and she didn’t attempt to move. She wasn’t bad looking. The only thing being that she looked exactly what she was: a singing room belle.
    “I thought you said you weren’t coming,” I said.
    “I changed me mind,” she said.
    There was a trace of a London accent on top of her broad Northern.
    “I’m glad,” I said. “I want to talk to you.”
    “What about?”
    “Doreen,” I lied.
    She looked across to the waiting cars.
    “Did—did everything go off all right?” she said.
    “Fine. The arrangements were fine. Thanks.”
    Her eyes were just as wet as those sort of eyes will ever be.
    “I want to talk to you,” I said again.
    She carried on looking at the cars.
    “How’s Doreen?”
    “How’d you expect?” I said. “She know about you and Frank?”
    Margaret gave me a smile that meant she thought I had something missing.
    “She knew. Why shouldn’t she?”
    “Because, like, I was thinking, can’t you