There were his work suits, fraying at the lapels; these she lifted out and placed on the bed. There were a number of wool cardigans, all of them thin at the elbow; she would patch those. Skimming through a selection of shirts, some white, some checked, she came across the tweed jacket he had bought especially for David’s graduation. She felt a beating against her chest, like something trapped inside. She hadn’t cast her eyes on the jacket for years.

Maureen eased it off the hanger and held it high in front of her, at Harold level. Twenty years fell away, and she saw the two of them again, standing outside King’s College Chapel, Cambridge, uncomfortable in their new outfits, in the exact spot where David had instructed them to wait. She saw herself wearing a satin dress with shoulder pads that, now she thought about it, was the colour of a boiled crustacean, and probably matched her cheeks. She saw Harold with his shoulders hunched, so that his arms shot out stiffly, as if the jacket sleeves were made of wood, not fabric.

It was his fault, she’d complained at the time; he should have checked the arrangements. It was nervousness that made her lash out. They had waited for over two hours, but it was the wrong place after all. They missed the whole ceremony. And even though David apologized when they bumped into him coming out of a pub (you could excuse him for that; it was a day of celebration), he also failed to meet them for the punting trip he had promised. The couple had made the long drive from Cambridge to Kingsbridge in silence.

“He said he’s going on a walking holiday,” she said at last.

“That’s good.”

“Just as a stopgap. Until he gets a job.”

“That’s good,” he said again.

Tears of frustration had caught like a solid lump in her throat. “At least he has a degree,” she fired. “At least he can make something of his life.”