It sounded as if she was smiling. I looked up at her and she wasn’t, but it didn’t matter. Some people smiled with their voices. She had a dog-lover’s face, which is my private name for a certain kind of face which, I have learned, is often found in these northern parts of the world: pouchy cheeks, tanned in a country way with white sun creases around small light eyes—hers were a hazelly green—and a pudgy medium-sized unimposing nose with no attitude to it. Unlike my nose which is, let’s say, the centerpiece of my face. Which makes a statement: Here I am! Hers was a nose simply for beneficent breathing through generous nostrils. But the most important thing about this kind of face—an expression of trust in the world. Trust in you, that you’re most likely going to be reasonable, and kind.

“Sit, sit in that big chair there.” She rose to her feet and held out her hand. “I’m going to finish that blessed bit of cleaning. You can look at the birds. Then I’ll make some tea.”

I did what she said. The chair faced a low, wide window with a deep sill. I could see out into the garden at the birds hopping around, pecking at bits of bacon rind. From time to time she came and put her hands on my shoulders without speaking, or saying just, “Weary-wearies,” which was an expression I didn’t know. Not that it mattered. Out of all the things strangers had said to me since I lost Catherine, “Weary-wearies” was by far the most welcome.

We had tea together looking out at this garden. Neither of us spoke for a long time. I was too drained to talk and she saw that. Of course, she didn’t just see it. She knew what it was like. So the time passed freely in restful silence. Not only didn’t I talk, I don’t even think I thought.

Eventually she broke into my nonthinking.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking. But might you be a Copt, my dear?”

What a delightful question. She must have seen the icons painted by the original Christians of Egypt. The Blessed Virgin and the female saints all had the same face: oval, with dark eyes and bow-shaped eyebrows and—of course—long noses. It was such a good guess, such an intelligent guess, I almost wished I was, so she could be right.

“No, but I am Egyptian, like the Copts. My family is Melkite—Catholic, that is to say, and originally from Lebanon—but I’m Church of England now. My husband’s a vicar.”

She nodded, comprehending. “I learned about the Copts and the Maronites and the Melkites at school. We took our religious instruction seriously in Ireland! And where did you meet your husband?”