they were the first in the cafe

a trace of scent

made do

discomfiture had flecked

of necessity

at twenty to six in the Running Footman

lies of silence

Spanish shoes

coming in the bedroom window

battered briefcase light

dust brushed

Spanish shoes

on the way to York

a whiff of Marmite

the afternoon that did not belong to them

she would manage better

sherry it was

not wasted

‘my God I mind’

unspoken, understood