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me, ‘but she keep to herself, you know?’
    It saddened me to think that the latter half of Emily’s life might have been empty and miserable. Following Margaret’s death or disappearance in 1940, she had only eight short years until, on the 8th of November, 1948, her ‘beloved Harry’ died – had her’s been a sad existence for the ensuing twenty-seven years?
    Then I recalled my dream. And the exhilaration in the old woman’ s eyes as she spoke about the poet Edward Thomas – ‘To think that Harry knew him – a man who wrote a verse like that.’ No, a spirit and a mind like Emily’s could never lead an empty, sad life. But what had happened? What had she done with the rest of her days?
    At nine o’clock the following Friday night, the telephone rang.
    ‘I do so hope this isn’t too late to call.’ The voice was British. Male. ‘But I just received your letter and I simply couldn’t wait.’
    ‘What letter?’
    ‘Oh, I’m most terribly sorry, it might be a good idea to introduce myself, mightn’t it? I’m Geoffrey Brigstock …’
    Geoffrey Brigstock? Impossible. This wasn’t the voice of a man in his seventies. This was a young man’s voice, and a rather goofy-sounding one at that.
    ‘My turn to apologise,’ I said. ‘I think I might have picked the wrong Geoffrey Brigstock. You see –’
    ‘No, you picked the right one, you were just ten years too late. My father died in ’65 … Hello? … Hello, are you there?’
    I finally found my tongue. ‘You’re Margaret and Geoffrey’s son?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Margaret’s son? Impossible. I wondered fleetingly whether he’d been adopted but, even as my mind raised the question, the answer followed.
    ‘My mother was eight and a half months pregnant when she died, so you can understand how important the discovery of her letters is to me. She was killed in the bombing of London, you know.’
    I remained speechless. So Margaret had finally conceived. Why didn’t she write and tell Emily?
    I was sure I knew why. Margaret had given up the possibility of ever conceiving, and when the miracle occurred she was too terrified to announce it for fear of tempting fate – for fear that she might experience Emily’s own horror of a stillborn child.
    ‘I can’t tell you how excited I am at the prospect of reading her letters,’ Geoffrey Bngstock was saying, desperate for a reply.
    ‘Yes, of course,’ I answered at long last.
    ‘I’ve only known of her from my father, you see. So to read her own words would be a marvellous experience. I wondered whether –’
    ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll post them to you immediately.’ I chastised myself for feeling loath to part with the letters.
    ‘I have an even better suggestion – so long as you don’t think it’s too intrusive,’ he added hurriedly. ‘I go to Singapore regularly on company business – we have an office there – and I wondered whether I might visit you. You described their friendship so beautifully, I would love to see Mrs. Roper’s house. Would you mind?’
    Mind? I’d be delighted, I thought. To meet Margaret and Geoffrey’s son! And he didn’t sound that goofy, really, just very eager.
    ‘What a lovely idea,’ I said. ‘When will you be here?’
    He told me that he’d arrive within the next month, that he’d let me know the date in a week or so, and he refused to allow me to meet him at the airport.
    ‘Wouldn’t think of it,’ he insisted. ‘I’ll ring you next week. Thank you so very, very much. Goodbye.’ And he rang off.
    I cancelled an appointment the day Geoffrey Brigstock was to arrive. It was an appointment that would probably cost me a job, but I couldn’t be bothered. I was too excited.
    ‘Nancy,’ he said, his handshake firm and friendly. ‘Geoffrey Brigstock. How do you do?’
    He was a nice-looking man. About thirty-five. And he looked rather like his voice. A cocker spaniel, I thought. A little bit goofy, keen, eager. Margaret would have liked