At last I got her upstairs. She wanted to sleep with me in my old room, so I tucked her into Ireen’s bed. She began to cry again, but wouldn’t take a sleeping pill. ‘It’s so terrible to think of … his poor body there … but he’s gone, I’ll never see him again …’

I stroked her frizzled grey hair. Her face was sodden with tears.

‘You don’t believe in God, do you?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Neither do I. George never knew that, he would have been shocked, I think he would have been … Do you?’

‘No, I’m sure he wouldn’t have been shocked.’

‘I wish I did,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, I wish I could believe I’d see him again. You don’t think … it’s possible?’

‘Anything’s possible,’ I said.

‘But not that. Oh George, George …’ She turned her face into the pillow. She was seventy, and hopeless, and I didn’t know how to comfort her.