The first postcard had arrived from Stan the day after Georgia left, and then on the third day, another was delivered. His handwriting is precise. It does not fit with the man who was dancing about in the kitchen while his wife is in a hospice, she thinks. She has seen postcards arrive regularly ever since she moved to Library Terrace. It’s impossible not to sneak a peek at the words if she is the first to collect the mail landing on the doormat. The cards are often plain, with a diagram on one side, a circle, filled in with green dots and squiggles, and fireworks of coloured arrows leading to unfamiliar Latin names in tiny lettering.

Georgia had once found Tess studying the design on one of the cards. ‘He was a roundabout designer, before he retired. You wouldn’t think a roundabout was something that needed to be designed, but he won prizes for his work. And an international award, I believe.’ And she had snatched the postcard away and stomped up the hall in a mood. After that, Tess only looked at the cards when Georgia was out; she never intended to pry, but her curious streak always got the better of her. And anyway, if he wanted privacy he would send a letter, she reasoned.

There was always news of Hazel, and the cards were signed ‘Love, Stan x’. This did not sit well with Tess at all.

*

There are no more cards after the third day, but on Monday a familiar grey envelope takes their place and lands on the tiled vestibule floor. Baxter is asleep upstairs on Tess’s bed; a lost cause. She can feel her heart racing and she doesn’t look at the address, but takes the letter to the kitchen and sets it on the table, face down, beside her coffee. Fiona had assured her there would be nothing more to worry about, but now this has arrived. She retrieves the largest knife from the drawer and sets about slicing the flap open, resting her hand on the envelope to stop it moving away from her.

She pushes the folded paper into her pocket and takes it up the garden to the plum tree, a habit she has adopted from seeing Georgia do it. ‘What has happened now?’ she says, as she unfolds the letter.

Dearest Georgia,

She reads Stan’s handwriting without making the conscious decision to do it. In contrast to the precision of the postcards, his fountain-penned words sprawl in royal blue ink across the page.

I wanted to write to you and not telephone because what I have to say bears the effort of pen and ink.

My sister is gone now. She slipped from this life to whatever does or does not come next, last night.

Tess reads on, entirely missing the most important piece of information.