They all came, of course, his children. Shocked, grieving, but saying that it had after all been a blessing, given how much he would have been changed, how poor the quality of his life would have been, and that he could not have suffered; it had been so swift, so mercifully swift. Mary listened, politely patient, nodding, smiling, sometimes weeping, but thinking that he was their father, not their husband; he was not the centre of their worlds anymore. So much easier to see it as a blessing, given all that; so very much harder for her.

Her children came too, Christine remorseful, as well as visibly grieving; Douglas shocked; and Tim and Lorraine both genuinely and horribly upset. All rallying round, loving her, but quite unable to comfort her, to ease the jagged place in her heart.

She kept telling herself that a year ago, Russell had been no more to her than a writer of letters, a happy memory. She had been content then; she would be content again. But it was not quite true, for she had changed; Russell’s love and vigour and generosity had brought her back to life, had given her indeed more life, a new, broader, richer one. She had grown accustomed to a voice in the darkness, a presence in the bed, a smile first thing in the morning, a kiss last thing at night; to a face opposite her at the table, an arm to take as she walked. She had come to enjoy ideas, suggestions, to being argued and reasoned with, to being appreciated and loved.

The funeral was small, family only, apart from the Connells, who had become family. In the same little church where the wedding had been. Maeve found it almost unbearable, looking at Mary standing beside the flower-covered coffin, all alone, when three months earlier she had stood beside Russell, becoming so happily his wife. She was brave, so brave-cried only once, when the coffin was carried in-and after that held her small, strong self together.

Morton spoke of a wise and wonderful father who had been all the world to him; and then Tim, briefly, of a new grandfather in his life whom he had come to love and revere.

“And who made my grandmother absolutely happy. They never seemed old to us, just a wonderful couple who had found each other, and relaunched their lives. We shall remember him always. And we will take care of Grandma for him.”

And then Russell left the church again, and was buried in the small churchyard; Mary stood looking down into the grave, quite composed, even when she threw the handful of earth onto the coffin; then she walked quickly away, on Tim’s arm. Her flowers went into the coffin, with her simple message: “Russell, thank you, with all my love.”

Morton stayed only a few days, Coral and Pearl for over a week; Mary was glad of their company but more glad when they left. She wanted the house to herself, to grieve and to explore her feelings. It seemed very large, very empty, very silent. But Russell lingered in every room.

One of the hardest things to deal with was his clothes, the vast dressing room in which he stored literally dozens of suits-more than Donald had had in his whole life, she thought: jackets, trousers, shirts, drawers full of ties and sweaters and belts and the silk pyjamas without which he said he would not be able to sleep. She stood there one afternoon, looking at them all, remembering him buying them-or some of them-seeing him wearing them, wondering where to begin sorting them out and getting rid of them… and then realised she did not have to begin at all. They could stay there for as long as she wished.

She applied the same principle to his study, to all his absurd gadgets, some of them hardly used, most of them quite useless to her; she called Timothy and told him to come and take what he wanted, and then after that she simply kept it all.

It was all part of Russell, this superabundance of things; and therefore, now, part of her.

She found routine helpful; she walked in the morning, watched TV in the evenings, in the company of the kittens-another source of comfort-making a great effort to watch at least some of the vast number of DVDs Russell had brought and told her she would enjoy… and in the afternoon, she played the piano, his last gift to her. She found this more comforting than anything; she had found a teacher, a sparky sixty-year-old called Genevieve, who came to the house twice a week, saw exactly what Mary needed, and created quite a punishing programme of pieces and practice. Moreover, if Mary hadn’t done her practice, she didn’t tell her it didn’t matter, but that if she hadn’t improved by her next lesson, she wouldn’t teach her anymore. She also entered Mary for her grade-three piano exam (she had passed one and two as a child) and booked several concerts for them to attend together in Bath, “just so you can hear how it should be done.” Mary was frequently to be found weeping over the piano in the afternoons, partly through frustration, partly through sorrow, but she knew it was helping her more than she would have believed.

People were very kind: Tim and Lorraine came once a week, sometimes in the evening, sometimes at the weekend, and Christine came twice, once to take her mother to the farmers’ market, which she enjoyed, and once to have lunch with her at home. She had ventured quite early on into the realms of apology for her hostility to Russell; Mary told her quite briskly to be quiet.

“You came to the wedding, dear-that was marvellous-and became friends with Russell after that, and I really don’t want to discuss it any further.”

Everyone told her she was being wonderful; Mary thought they should see her at night, when she had gone to bed, and wept and sometimes howled with misery.

Other people visited her: Georgia had been terribly upset and wept so long and so copiously after Tim had called her-they had made rather good friends at the wedding, so good indeed that Lorraine had become quite spiky-that her mother thought something dreadful had happened to her.

“It is dreadful,” Georgia wailed; “Russell has died, and I was going to visit them the very next week, and now I’ll never see him again and I can’t bear it.”

“You won’t see him again, Georgia, no, but neither will Mary. She’s the one something dreadful has happened to, and I think she’s the one who feels she can’t bear it. Go and see her, keep her company, tell her about your life, go for walks with her-that’s what you can do for her now.

“Sometimes,” Bea said to Jack with a sigh, “I feel Georgia’s development was arrested at about the age of six.”

Georgia telephoned Mary to arrange a day, and Mary said that if she was coming on the train, then she would send the car to meet her in Bath. Georgia, who felt her visit should be as difficult as possible by way of reparation, said that wouldn’t be necessary and arrived therefore an hour and a half late on the twice-daily bus to Tadwick. Mary, who had by then decided she couldn’t be coming, was trying to comfort herself by playing the piano, which was in fact rather fortuitous, as Georgia found some old sheet music of Russell’s and they spent an extremely happy afternoon together, Georgia singing while Mary accompanied her.

“Right,” Georgia said when they were both exhausted and she was hoarse, “that’s Oklahoma and My Fair Lady ticked off; next week we’ll do Annie Get Your Gun and Carousel. And how do you think you’d be with Scott Joplin? This is fun.”