Direct Hitby Adam Thorpe

Miss Simkin's favourite bench, to which she had repaired every clement weekday lunchtime for fifteen years, had old-fashioned spiral arms and weathered slats, and was shadowed by a glorious elm. Set far enough back from the Serpentine's lower end not to be disturbed by squealing bathers or the customary high jinks that overtake people in rowing boats, the bench commanded a view, not only of the lake, but of the entire south-eastern corner of the park. She felt almost countrified, sitting there - as she never felt in Sheffield, where she had been bought up by her widowed mother in somewhat straitened circumstances...

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