They are in the garden when the phone rings, he, bent over a spade digging up potatoes, she, pulling out weeds with great gusto and throwing them onto the adjacent lawn. He watches her sprint across the grass and up the concrete path alongside his new wooden shed, her shapely sun-browned legs moving with the same power and grace she displays when swimming or cycling. Fifty-three last birthday, Ivy retains the trim figure Rob admired all those years ago in the goods office at the central railway station. A petite woman, she was and remains, a complete contrast to his first post-war girlfriend, the tall, voluptuous redhead seated at the adjoining desk, long pale fingers tipped with scarlet nails, striking typewriter keys as if her life depended on it. That relationship was over almost before
