Betty,

I’m sorry to write to you like this out of the blue. We have met before, but only briefly. We both helped with the Christmas tree exhibition at church for the local schoolchildren. I loved the tree you decorated using recycled plastic. I think I told you that at the time, and you said you loved my knitted tinsel. The tree hadn’t come out quite the way I wanted it, and my dried oranges smelt slightly of mould, but thank you. I really appreciated your kind words. Obviously, I’m not writing to you to thank you for liking my Christmas tree, it’s just hard to broach the subject and I fear I’m making a hash of it already. I am not very well, Betty, and my husband doesn’t know. I can’t tell him because there’s nothing he can do to stop it (cancer of the pancreas, stage four). He will show his sadness as anger and I don’t have the energy for that. I only have enough left to make some of his favourite meals and sort out his appointments. I don’t think you’ve met my husband, but you may have heard about him. Forget what Barbara says. She means well, but she and George don’t get on. I’ve been married to him for over forty years and I know him better.

I wish we could be having this chat over a cup of tea. Time is nothing until you have none. The things I want to tell you should come after years of friendship, but I don’t even have weeks, so I hope you don’t mind.

To understand George I need to tell you a story. It’s about my dad. He used to go to the pub every night smelling of coal-tar soap and a peppery cologne. My mother used to dust the bottle, stopping every time to sniff the lid. She didn’t have a bottle of her own perfume to dust, just that cut-glass bottle with the red metal cap.

I could smell it each time I was sent to collect him, when eight o’clock passed and then nine and his dinner was cold on the table … My mum would never go herself. She would pat her hair and smooth her pinny and say, ‘Look at me, love, in my slippers!’ and I’d think that all she needed to do was put on her coat and dab on some lipstick. It wasn’t about other people seeing her, I finally realized. It was about what she would see herself. Her husband sitting in the corner booth of the local, the light of a single candle making him seem like a single man. Next to him a lady, always a different one. He loved them all, and they seemed to love him, but none more than my faded mother in her washed-out aprons.

My mum cried all the time, over a man who could only ever really love himself.

Fast-forward a few years, to the day I met George. I was at the Saturday market, getting fabric. It was hot and busy, so I decided to buy a punnet of strawberries to eat on the bus. The fruit-and-veg stall was crowded. I stood back, fanning myself with my shopping. A woman pushed past me and started picking peaches. She was tall and pretty, and her stockings were ruler-straight down the back of her legs. She went to pass the bagged fruit to the seller when a man said, ‘Oi, I was first. Wait your turn.’ The woman looked shocked. A face like that didn’t normally have to wait. George pushed her out of the way and paid for his bag of Brussels. That was when I knew he was the one for me. He’d never have his head turned by a pretty woman. Forget the pub, he’d be at the table before dinner was served, banging his knife and fork with impatience. He was rude and awkward and no one else would want him.

As soon as I got to know him, though, I knew I’d picked more than just a loyal man. I’d picked a decent, hard-working one. I never wanted for anything. Each year, he demanded I get a new coat, new hat, whatever I needed, whatever I fancied. George tries to hide it, but he’s thoughtful. He’s honest, too, and he’s funny, Betty. He’ll make you laugh like no one else. He’s kind, when he thinks you can’t see it, and he cares about doing a good job. About making something better, making something that will last.

I used to joke that if we were Jack and Rose on the Titanic, he’d push me off the bit of wood into the sea. He always said, ‘No need. I’d have made the bloody ship better in the first place.’

And we were happy, Betty. In a way other people won’t understand. Our marriage ran like the Singer sewing-machine George bought me instead of a honeymoon. Sometimes it needed a belt replacing or a new bobbin winder, but we spooled on like my original 66 straight stitch. It never broke down, no matter the material I fed it or what I threaded it with. I pressed the pedal and it sewed. After all this time it has never stopped working and the original mechanism still shows no sign of wear. It could go on for years. Alas, I have only days. That sewing-machine is yours now. Please keep an eye on my George.

He’s going to need someone when I go, and I think that person might be you. It feels odd to sit here, at the table he made for us, and ask a stranger to look after my husband because I’m not going to be here to do it myself. I’m not scared of dying, but I’m scared for George.

I know you lost your lovely husband, Bill, a while back. I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet him, he sounded wonderful. So was the way you picked yourself up after he passed. It was nothing short of remarkable. Every time I went to put my name down for something, yours was already there.

I know you’re busy, with all your (wonderful) projects, and I’m certainly not asking for my husband to be your next one, but would you please, if you have the time, or the inclination, maybe check on him now and again? He won’t like it and he’ll be rude, but I saw how you handled those children when they tried to steal the prayer cushions to make a fort and I think you can handle him. I’m not asking you to do much, maybe just push him in the right direction. My George is never going to sing from hymn sheets and he’s not the neighbour you’d call on for milk or sugar, but he is a good man, Betty. We were never blessed with children to go round this table George spent months making. We only ever had one another. It’s all right for me, I get to go first. I don’t have to live in a world without him. I’m sorry, Betty, I need a minute to get a clean hanky. This dying business is so messy. Right, I’ve blown my nose and made a fresh pot of tea, so where was I? Oh, yes, he loves gardening and woodwork. Maybe, with enough nagging, he’ll tackle the church allotment. He needs something to do other than listen to his beloved cricket. I hope getting Poppy was a good idea. She’s a lovely dog. George doesn’t agree but, in time, he will. She’s sitting next to me as I write this, her dear little nose on my arm. I feel so sad I won’t see her grow up. Anyway, I’d best get on. I’ve a funeral to plan. I do hope Barbara doesn’t go too mad with the flowers and hymns. George hates the poem ‘Death Is Nothing At All’ so no doubt she’ll kick off with that. Sorry, again, to lay this on you. Feel free to ignore this letter, but please, never tell George I wrote it. He’s a proud and private man. Oh, and please do help yourself to any of my things. I know George will hoard all of me in the spare room. I don’t have much, but if any of it could be of use to anyone, then please pass it on. I know the charity shop in the village is always asking for donations.

With gratitude,

Ellen Dempsey