crematorium in a town he has never lived in, and a plot at St Osyth’s with his wife in it and the other half empty for ever.
So he worked out, on his own, at a card table, that the fastest and least arguable way to acquire a next of kin was to marry one.
And then he looked round that building for somebody he would not be taking advantage of.
Why me.
And this is the part that took the legs out from under me in that day room, and that I have not been able to repeat to anybody without stopping.
He had heard me.
On my fourth Wednesday, in the May, a care assistant called Fela asked me whether my husband was buried locally.
And I said: “Not yet.”
Four months after Pete died, and I said not yet, and Fela — who is twenty-six and kind — said
