He liked it that she didn’t say thank you. She didn’t waste words. That was one of the things which drew him to her, that she was careful. He had the apprehension that she would be careful with people’s feelings as well.

They never forgot the old man on the beach with the cut foot. Owen even mentioned it in his speech at the wedding, how the first thing he’d seen her do was a kindness. It’d come up in conversation now and again, over the years. And when he got sick and they were told the diagnosis, Owen had said, ‘You’re not going to be able to just sort this out with an old T-shirt, Haze.’

It wasn’t often that Hazel cried, but the tears came then. She didn’t know how they were going to find the strength to break it to the children.

Since she’d been widowed Hazel had found herself staring at women of her own age or older, in cafés, at the library or in the shops. Had some of them lost their husbands too? And if so, how did they manage? How did they go about the streets, post letters, cook their evening meal for one, answer the telephone and sound normal? How did they do everything, alone? She wanted to ask someone how it was possible not to just lie on the floor, for the rest of their lives. It always surprised her, that she too seemed capable of mimicking ordinary life, that she kept putting one foot in front of the other: getting dressed in the mornings, making a cup of coffee, glancing at the news. So much of what you did was automatic. All the time she felt the tug of grief, pulling and pulling at her, as visceral as indigestion. I can lie on the floor and weep after I’ve done this, she’d think as she performed each little task. But somehow she managed to stay upright.