I’m sitting at the tram stop. An elderly lady, well-dressed, tall and strong-looking, sits down beside me.

‘Let's enjoy the last few rays of sunshine,’ I say to her.

[More:]

‘It seems the rain’s going to come in this afternoon, and that it’s going to stay.’

‘We’ve had a lovely few days, though,’ she says. ‘A whole week of sunshine – that’s rare, these days. I remember when I was young, the seasons were really marked. We got proper summers then - now you never know what to expect.’

‘Yes, long spells of sunshine are rare here. Oh here comes the tram. No, it’s the 25; I’m waiting for the 94.’

‘Me too. You know, we used to go to Italy a lot. They had real seasons there, too. You knew that in summer it would be sunny and in winter it would be cold. Everything's topsy-turvy now. My husband was Italian.’

I look at her sympathetically.

‘We’d drive to Milan every year, stopping in Switzerland on the way. Then we’d borrow a cousin’s Lambretta and ride off to see relatives in the countryside. I don’t go to Italy any more. It makes me too sad.’

I see the tears welling up in her eyes. Slightly uncomfortable, I wonder whether I should change the subject.

‘Do you live around here?’ I ask.

‘Yes, in Boitsfort. We used to live in a big house, then we moved into an apartment when our daughter grew up. I drove my car and parked it just round the corner. I don’t like parking in town.’

‘I did the same,’ I say. ‘Mine is the supermarket car park down the road. I hope they don’t catch me – I don’t think you’re meant to stay more than two hours. Boitsfort is lovely,’ I add. ‘Superb market on Sundays.’

‘They have great concerts at the Town Hall,’ she tells me. ‘I hardly go into Brussels any more. Do you?

‘Sometimes, for work or shopping. I’m going to meet a friend in Avenue Louise.’

‘I have to go to the Italian Consulate,’ she says. ‘They sent me a document and I don’t understand it, so I’m going to see what it’s about.’

I half think of offering to help her with it, then decide it may be something confidential.

‘I used to work hard on my Italian when my husband was alive,’ she says. Her eyes are filling with tears again. This lady needs to cry, I think.

‘It must have been tough,’ I say.

She bursts into tears. I put my arm around this complete stranger, and just hold her as she sobs. ‘He was ill for five years. Prostate cancer. But he was so brave, right until the end. He was in hospital, but he wanted to die at home. I nursed him to the end. It was a year ago.’

We just sit a while. Another 25 tram comes. Then at last a 94.

‘Thank you for listening,’ she says.

‘Come and sit beside me. We can chat a bit more.’

‘Look, that’s where my daughter lives. In that apartment block.’ We are right beside the university. ‘I used to look after the children when she was working. But she doesn’t need me to do that any more. Her eldest is in her last year of school, and the other two aren’t far behind. I don't see them a lot. They're so busy.’

‘Do you get out much?’

‘Not really. You see, my friends – those who are still alive - are either ill or nursing their husbands. I’m eighty-four. The flat is so empty. And I have little to do. I was busy when my husband was sick. And I’m just not myself any more.’

‘It will take time,’ I say. ‘But you’re fit and healthy, and you drive your car…I hope that soon you’ll be going to those concerts at the Town Hall.’

‘Maybe.’ She smiles.

‘Or maybe you can just get the tram and chat to people.’ She laughs. We’re at our destination. I help her off. She gives me a hug and a kiss and strides off towards the Italian Consulate. I hope I’ll see her again – maybe at a concert at the Town Hall.