The light in September was fickle. Yesterday, it had glowered through sullen clouds. Today, it slanted in amber tangents across the North Fields allotments. It gilded the late runner beans but sparked no warmth in the steel of Tom's bicycle frame. It did not matter. He coasted down the lane, the gravel's crunch under his wheels as familiar a rhythm as his own breath. It was as he crested the final slope that he saw it, pa...