‘These are your father’s things,’ the nurse had said, making a decisive effort to look her directly in the eye. This connection had felt fake to Clio, as if the nurse was simply following the training manual rather than displaying any true empathy. Unexpected death occurred every day and Clio, it seemed, was just the latest in a long line of the bereaved who had to be dealt with. Clio resisted the urge to take the nurse by the shoulders and shake some genuine emotion into her. ‘My father is DEAD,’ she wanted to shout, but instead she accepted the clear zip-lock bag, taking care not to let her eyes fall on its contents.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and the nurse nodded and then retreated from the room as if she couldn’t get away quickly enough.

Clio looked down at the bag in her hand and her stomach lurched so badly that she thought she might be sick. Breathing deeply through her nose, she stuffed it into her handbag which she zipped tightly shut, as if that would make it all go away, like a child closing their eyes against the dark.

She hadn’t opened the handbag again until the following day and found the forgotten little bundle of her father’s possessions where she had buried it. Clio had readied herself for what was to come, making a cup of tea first and then sitting at her kitchen table, the plastic bag in front of her. She took a deep breath, opened the zip and slid the bag’s contents out on to the wooden surface.

There wasn’t much, just his watch and what had been in his pockets. The watch was Cartier, an anniversary gift from her mother. Clio picked it up. The leather strap had taken the shape of her father’s wrist and when she lifted it to her face she could still smell the woody trace of his aftershave. Clio let her tears fall unchecked – there was no one here to be brave for.

The bag also contained a handful of change and a pristine white cotton handkerchief pressed into a neat square. It was perfectly plain. Clio had once had some monogrammed for her father as a gift for Christmas, but she had rarely seen him use them. He said that they were too precious to blow his nose on and had continued to use the plain white ones.

Finally, there had been a battered little blue book. It was small enough to fit into a breast pocket and the cover, made of butter-soft leather, had curved slightly as if it had always been kept close to his person. Its corners were bent and the pages had yellowed with age. It had certainly been well used, possibly well loved.