When I drive back to London, I pass Marry's old house. I must have done this once a month for the last fourteen years and have hardly given it a second look. Her family left it years ago. Now I have stopped and ringing the doorbell. Maybe whoever opens the someone else, perhaps the housekeeper. I ring the bell again. It makes the same noise as fourteen years ago. I know now that nobody will come, and that seems right. Nobody could ever replace the nineteen-years-old girl, who used to throw open the door as quickly as possibe. And always she was surprised 'it's you!', as if she had expected somebody else, or had been afraid I wouldn't come.