‘Shut up, wench, and don’t nick anything while the shop is unattended.’

Betty laughs. George almost does, too, then wonders what on earth he’s doing.

When the cashier comes back, he takes the bags and marches out of the shop ahead of Betty, uncomfortable at the thought of someone seeing them together. The village is full of nosy fuckers with nothing better to do than spread gossip.

He parks Betty and the dogs by a bench then stomps off to the hardware store for bin bags and dog food, passing the paper shop, which is selling daffodils outside in dirty buckets. For a second, he wants to buy some for Ellen’s grave. The thought leaves as quickly as it arrives. He hasn’t been there since the funeral. She isn’t there anyway. She’s dead and he’ll soon be dead too.

Ellen.

He had found another letter in the shed when he was looking for his chisel.

Hello George,

I’m so happy you are using your tools again. Maybe you can make Poppy a basket. I didn’t buy her one as they are so expensive, and I’m sure you could make something even lovelier than what’s in the shops. You could use one of the old wooden crates I stored jam in. Speaking of which, there should still be some left in the pantry. Maybe give a few jars to the people who have been helping you. I know you well enough to know that someone will be feeding you: you’d never learn to cook, and ready meals aren’t your style. If it’s Barbara, maybe you could thank her by taking your toolkit into the church and looking at the pews. They need some TLC. Also, the manger the school uses for the Nativity broke last year. One of the children got in it with a tea-towel on her head. She fell right through the back and the Vicar said, ‘Jesus Christ …’ but managed to add, ‘… is born,’ before anyone realized what was going on. Maybe you could fix that while you are at it. I hope Poppy is doing well.

Don’t forget to book your review with the diabetes nurse.

Love,

your Ellen

How did she know he’d find the letters in this order? It was as if she’d turned into God, but George doesn’t believe in God.

A sudden bout of missing his wife had hit him then like a bullet and he’d had to sit down on an upturned jam crate and stare at a jar of nails for five minutes until he could stand again.