coffee like the mill pond where mrs simmonds , the newsagent 's wife committed suicide , hurling her tear-stained life into the filth and dark brown stagnancy of the disused pond , two frightened boys , quivering at the edge of the lake , peering into the hollywood mist that i seem to remember existed like her ghost , suspended below the dark , damp , dripping trees that folded conspiratorially over her dead deep buried body , entombing her pain , keeping her dark , unnatural secret hidden for eternity , or until they drain it and build a car park or a cheap staff canteen that sells mud in plastic cups , and mr simmonds , uncomprehending , shuffles out the back of his disordered shop to make a cup of tea and read the newspaper that carried the news to every pair of gossiping lips , wishing he had her courage , her passion , instead of lumbago and a diminishing stock of years and marlboros .