Hello George,

It’s me, Betty. You seem to accept things better in a letter so here it is. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about Ellen’s letter to me and I’m sorry for giving her belongings away. I should never have done that. Bill’s things were stained with guilt and I couldn’t bear to look at them. I tried so hard to make him better, you see, and I couldn’t. The doctor told me to give him morphine when he asked for it. He asked for it all the time, and I gave it to him. Sometimes I feel as if his blood is on my hands. I administered that last dose, Sunday evening, six p.m., after a bowl of stewed apple with brown sugar.

The doctor told me it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t the morphine that killed him, it was the cancer, but I still feel like I failed him.

That was not the case for you, though. You didn’t fail your Ellen, and her things could’ve offered you comfort when enough time had passed. I was only doing what she had asked me to do. It’s hard to deny a dying woman, though I never took that lovely Singer. It would have felt like payment and I never wanted or needed that. Getting the odd laugh out of you has been rewarding enough. Seeing you fall in love with that little dog.

Anyway, I’m doing all I can to get Ellen’s things back. I’ve only found this dog so far. The vicar bought it to use as a paperweight. I think Barbara bought some clothes that she’ll never get into.

I never came to see you out of pity or duty. You are a rude, grumpy, cantankerous, ungrateful old sod. You have terrible dress sense, and a potty mouth, but you make me laugh, and I like you.

Betty White

Bloody women and their bloody letters.

George imagines Betty writing it at the table he mended. Other than Ellen, George hasn’t been surrounded by people for most of his life and has never minded. Betty isn’t used to it, though. She’s lost all the people she loved and solitude is punishment to her. George strokes his chin with one hand and the dog with the other. The letter isn’t written on posh paper, like Ellen’s were. This paper is cheap and George can see where Betty has pressed hard on her pen in some parts. He can imagine her writing it. Smearing her make-up with tears. Or does she bother with make-up any more? Now there’s no one to see it.