And Keela has a photograph from about twenty to four of me mid-sentence with both hands up, and Nancy is in it, in somebody else’s arms, at the edge of the frame.
Her mother sent it to me in the November with a laughing face, meaning nothing by it at all.
It is a photograph of a woman at her granddaughter’s christening doing somebody else’s voice.
And the last thing.
I never got her name.
She said hers on that walkway. I am almost certain she did — people do — and I was four seconds into working out what she had just said to me and it went past.
So there is a woman of twenty-six somewhere who could put her hand up in any room I am in and say that was me, and I would not know her if she did.
And I have thought about what I would want to say to her, and I have had fourteen months, and the honest answer is that there is nothing.
