It was nearly eleven when I considered myself fit for the day. I lit a fire in the stove and put two thick slices of bread under the grill. Opened a packet of coffee and began the complicated act of brewing a pot. It had been months since I had performed such actions and there was something reassuring about doing a task that had once been so familiar. Stefan used to watch with fascination as I played with the complex chrome and silver percolator that I had received as a wedding present and the opening of which had been the only part of that ghastly day in Hounslow that I had actually enjoyed.

I revelled in the rich aroma of the ground coffee beans. Gave an audible sigh as I poured the scalding water onto the brown dust and let the water infuse with the rich dark flavour. Pressing down the plunger on the cafetière was the most splendid moment of all; a kind of reverse Excalibur – a returning of the sword to the stone. I drank it black, like we all did at university. Ate my toast with a thick smear of rhubarb and ginger jam. I even switched on the wireless for a little while, though that was one act of defiance too far. Stefan and I used to listen to the wireless. We would dance and clap and sing to the songs. It was too much without him. The pain sat like undigested food in my chest and I switched it off at the plug.

When I had finished I washed the dishes and left them to drain. I watched the rain as I worked. The deluge had eased off into a fine mist that hung in the air like dust in a colossal cobweb. The sky beyond was the colour of white towels washed with black shirts. The fields and trees, the strip of road, the pebbles lining the drive; the damp air had made them all somehow liquid and as I watched I began to imagine that if I simply stretched out a hand I would be able to swirl the colours into a pattern; smear the landscape into nonsense like damp oil paints.

I was checking my reflection in the mirror above the kitchen table when I heard the brass knocker on the big front door boom three times. It was such an unusual sound that at first I struggled to place it. My visitors had been few in the time since moving in and even fewer since Stefan went to sleep. For an instant I saw the footprints by my bed. Could my visitor have returned? But if so, would they think to knock? Was it a diversion? Was somebody else sneaking up to the back door while I was preoccupied at the front?