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?
Throughout the morning she kept picking the letter up. There was no date on it, no knowing if it was recent or from long ago. She kept telling herself it didn’t matter. Her marriage with Don had worked, they’d brought up a family. Best to just forget the letter.
But as she nibbled her Ryvita for lunch, the words ‘love you lots’ kept clawing at her mind. She got up from the table, sat before her dresser, studying her silver permed hair, the grooves on her face a grid of flesh. Had Don become bored with her in later life, found her unattractive, found S desirable?
She’d spent the week after the funeral recalling good times together. These were going to be her armour against future infirmity. If affliction came, she’d could say, ‘What’s a little pain compared to all the happy years?’ But now: had Don stopped loving her?
Why had he kept the letter? And who was S? The words of the letter danced hostilely through her mind. Back downstairs, sipping her tea which had turned cold, she remembered there had been somebody before her, when Don was a teenager in Wales. What was her name? Sybil? No. Sylvia? Yes, that was it. ‘We were young, and then I got the naval apprenticeship here in North Devon, and met you,’ Don had said. ‘End of.’
End? He’d kept her letter for nearly fifty years if so. Or had they meet up again in later life? From time to time his electrician’s work took him away from home, even travelling as far as South Wales. He could have met her there.
A mobile phone pinged. She picked up hers from the table: no message. Don had had a mobile for work. She searched the small wardrobe. Yes, there, in the check jacket, side pocket. A text had just arrived ‘for all the people on Sylvia’s contact list. This is her daughter sadly informing you of her death.’
So they had met again. Had they died, loving each other? Had her own love been for a stranger? Happy memories her companions in her last years? No. They would be questions, unanswerable questions. She locked the wardrobe, the scent on his clothing cloying.
