She’d keep some of his jackets and shirts; they were comforting. They smelt of him, his sweat and pipe tobacco. He was almost a presence.   

            A week after the funeral she unlocked the wardrobe because his absence was niggling, and ran her hand over his nice check jacket, an expensive one from Marks and Spencer. She felt something in its inside pocket. It was a letter which simply said: ‘What a great day yesterday. Love you lots, S.’

            Who was S? When was the letter written? Don hadn’t been a romantic man, not one for giving flowers or chocolates. He was steady in his feeling for her, rather than ardent or demonstrative. He wouldn’t have kept a love letter: for this was a love letter wasn’t it?