“Bath seems like a nice place,” he said. He closed his book. “Are you on vacation?”

Reluctantly, Harold explained his story, but kept it brief. He left out, for instance, the detail about the garage girl and how she had saved her aunt. Instead he added that after his son left Cambridge, he had gone on a walking trip to the Lake District, although he wasn’t sure how much hiking he had done. David had returned home and not moved for weeks.

“Is your son joining you?” said the man.

Harold said he wasn’t. He asked the American what he did for a living.

“I’m a physician.”

“I met a Slovakian lady who is a doctor. She can only get cleaning work. What sort of physician are you?”

“An oncologist.”

Harold felt his blood quicken, as if he had unintentionally broken into a run. “Gosh,” he said. It was clear neither man knew what to say next. “Goodness.”

The oncologist raised his shoulders and gave a regretful smile, as if he wished he could be something else. Harold glanced round for the waitress, but she was fetching water for another customer. His head was dizzy with the heat and he dabbed at his forehead.

The oncologist said, “Do you know what sort of cancer your friend has?”

“I’m not sure. In her letter, she says there’s nothing else they can do. She doesn’t say any more than that.” He felt so exposed, the oncologist might as well have been probing at Harold’s skin with his scalpel. He loosened his tie, and then his collar. He wished the waitress would hurry.

“Lung cancer?”

“I really don’t know.”

“May I see her letter?”

He didn’t want to show it, but the oncologist was holding out his empty hand. Harold reached into his pocket and found the envelope. He adjusted the sticking plaster on his reading glasses, but his face was so slick with moisture he had to hold them in place. He wiped the table with his sleeve, and then again with his napkin, before unfolding the pink sheet of paper, and smoothing it flat. Time seemed to stop. Even as the oncologist reached for the letter and gently eased it closer, Harold’s right fingers hovered over the page.

He read Queenie’s words as the oncologist read them. He felt he had to protect the letter and that, by not letting it out of his sight, he could do that. His eye fell on the postscript: No need to reply. After that came an untidy squiggle, as if someone had made a mistake with their left hand.

The oncologist threw himself back in his chair, and blew out a sigh. “What a moving letter.”

Harold nodded. He replaced his reading glasses in his shirt pocket. “And beautifully typed,” he said. “Queenie was always neat. You should have seen her desk.” At last he smiled. It was going to be all right.