‘My father was a postmaster’s son in a small town outside Gloucester. He was bright and he became a schoolmaster, even though I’m not at all sure he liked children very much. They met when she was sixteen and he was already thirty-eight. All rather a cliché really: the shy, graceless schoolmaster sinking into bachelorhood – no one interested in him. He wasn’t handsome. He’s the kind of man no one normally notices very much. But she noticed him – she’s like that . . .’ His voice softened. ‘She sees things in people that others miss and brings them out. She’s very compassionate, would do anything for people.’ He paused and looked across the room as if stopped by a painful thought. ‘She was lovely to look at then, perfect really. Pretty, innocent, very vivacious. You can see it all in the photographs. He was forever having portraits done of her. He was completely taken over by her. I suppose his life began again when he met her. She saved him, and he knows it. But she adored him as well. She was an only child, and I think her parents were reasonable enough people, but she had a great store of affection to give away. They married two years later. When she was nineteen, the next year, reality crashed in on them. I arrived, wonky leg and all. Imperfect. A disappointment. She was very good to me, of course – defensive of me. But she was so protective, she wouldn’t let me breathe – give me a chance to get out and cope.

‘She’s always been dominated totally by my father. It was his age, his manner, and I think she felt guilty for not giving him a proper son. It was he who ruled they must have no more children because the first pot was cracked, so to speak.’ Douglas gave a self-mocking laugh. ‘If this one’s like this, think what the next one might be like, was his attitude. He’s an arrogant man, and cold. I suppose their courtship was the one aberration in his life. And she still loves him. Heaven knows why. She was so young when she married him and in some ways she still is. Didn’t she strike you as girlish?’

‘In a way.’ I thought of her letter to me. ‘She must be strong, though.’

The cheeseboard arrived at our table and we cut slices of Leicester and Wensleydale to eat with water biscuits, luxurious in this austere time.

‘Your father looks so bitter,’ I said, thinking back to the man’s sour features. ‘Why would that be? Not because of you, surely? He ought to be proud of all you’ve achieved.’

‘Things built up over the years,’ Douglas said evasively. He reached out and took one of my hands in his. ‘Can we change the subject now? I’d really prefer to leave them out of tonight.’

My curiosity was still unsatisfied, but I agreed.

‘You must miss your father,’ Douglas said kindly. ‘Especially today. It seems tragic to die so near the end of the war.’