‘What is there to say except that we were married for forty years and now he’s dead?’

‘You could show me some of the things he gave you.’ May picked up ornaments, gazed at pictures. ‘Did he give you that? What about this?’

‘They weren’t presents. I bought them or he did.’

May couldn’t help getting excited. ‘I wonder you’re not afraid of burglars. This is a proper Aladdin’s Cave. Have you got lots of jewellery too?’

‘Not much,’ said June uncomfortably.

May’s eyes were on June’s engagement ring, a poor thing of diamond chips in nine carat gold, far less expensive than the ring Walter had given his first love. Of course she had kept hers and Walter, though well off even then, hadn’t been rich enough to buy a second magnificent ring within six months of the first. But later, surely . . .?

‘I should have thought you’d have an eternity ring.’

‘Marriage doesn’t last for eternity,’ said June. ‘Let’s not talk about it any more.’

May could tell she didn’t like talking about it. Soon she shied at mentioning Walter’s name and she put away the photographs of him which had stood on the piano and the drawing room mantelpiece. May wondered if Walter had ever written any letters to his wife. They had seldom been parted, of course, but it would be strange if June had received no letter from him in forty years. The first time June went out alone, May tried to open her desk. It was locked. The drawers of June’s dressing table disclosed a couple of birthday cards with ‘Love from Walter’ scrawled hastily on them, and the only other written message from her husband June had considered worth keeping May found tucked into a cookery book in the kitchen. It was a note written on the back of a bill, and it read: ‘Baker called. I ordered large white for Saturday.’

That night May reread the two letters she had received from Walter during their engagement. Each began, ‘Dearest May.’ She hadn’t looked at them for forty years – she hadn’t dared – but now she read them with calm satisfaction. ‘Dearest May, This is the first love letter I have ever written. If it isn’t much good you must put it down to lack of practice. I miss you a lot and rather wish I hadn’t told my parents I would come on this holiday with them . . .’ ‘Dearest May, Thanks for both your letters. Sorry I’ve taken so long to reply but I feel a bit nervous that my letters don’t match up to yours. Still, with luck, we soon shan’t have to write to each other because we shan’t be separated. I wish you were here with me . . .’ Poor Walter had been reticent and shy, unable to express his feelings on paper or by word of mouth. But at least he had written love letters to her and not notes about loaves of bread. May decided to start wearing her engagement ring again – on her little finger of course because she could no longer get it over the knuckle of her ring finger. If June noticed she didn’t remark on it.