The bed had been disposed of: nobody would accept anything too old to have fire-retardant labels attached. It was a shame, since it was perfectly serviceable. We had donated the mahogany furniture to a local charity shop supporting a baby hospice, which seemed fitting. I gently packed the clothes into the basket, handling everything with as much tenderness as I’d have held the babies themselves. I wondered if any of it had ever been worn, or whether after its painstaking creation, everything had waited in vain to be shown to the world.

Of course, the letter was still there, attached to the sheet of hardboard. I stared at it for a moment, wondering if I really wanted to know its contents. My heart began to race as, with quivering fingers, I peeled away the tape that had secured the envelope’s position for God knows how long. Finally holding the paper in my hands, I hardly dared open it. Steeling myself, I took a deep breath and lifted the flap.

The thin sheets of paper within were a faded blue, the words written in black ink, in a neat cursive hand. There was a date at the top – 27th December 1980. It began with the line, ‘My darling Ginny’.

I stopped suddenly. I don’t know why, but I had a strange feeling of foreboding. These were the words of a dead man, intended only for the eyes of his beloved, and part of me didn’t want to know how they would play out. Once viewed, I wouldn’t be able to unsee the content.

I read no further, stuffing the pages back into their envelope and into my jeans pocket. It could wait for another day. Or maybe never. I had already learned enough secrets to last a lifetime.

Composing myself, I took the basket and went back downstairs. I checked on Elodie, who was stretched out contentedly, arms above her head, her eyes still tightly shut. Back in my own house, I pulled the letter from my pocket and tucked it safely into the jacket flap of the book about Avoncote. I decided to make a pot of tea.