The local primary school was about a hundred yards away, and two or three times a day hordes of children would flood into Sammy’s for lemonade and crisps. The old men viewed them as pests, but Sammy and Betty adored children. They would regularly undercharge their young clientele or give them free sweets. Partly this was altruism, but it was also good business practice. Sammy was developing customer loyalty, and there was never a problem with shoplifters.

They had no children of their own – just one of those things. But hundreds of nieces and nephews meant that Uncle Sammy and Aunty Betty had all the family they could ever want. Sammy’s shop was open seven days a week, 364 days a year. He took New Year’s Day off. It was traditional, after all.

One day, by nine in the morning, there was no sign of activity at the shop. People knew instantly that something must be wrong and headed round to Sammy’s house. No answer led to the arrival of the police to force entry. In the upstairs bedroom they found Sammy sitting on the floor staring blankly into space. He held Betty’s lifeless body in his arms. A massive cerebral haemorrhage had taken his beloved wife from him.

Betty was buried on a cold, wet Friday morning. The cemetery was crowded and it seemed as if the whole of the town, young and old, had turned up to say their goodbyes. As Betty, in her oak coffin, was lowered into her grave, she took with her the very essence of her husband’s being and his own will to live. That afternoon Sammy re-opened the shop. Everyone advised him to have a rest, go on holiday, take time, heal himself. The advice went unheeded. Although the shop was open, Sammy had no real interest in it. He could see Betty and hear her voice, but she was no longer there. At night he returned to their house, but it was no longer his home, their home.