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this unknown Steve, with whom she hoped she would manage to be on polite terms, not showing him how deeply she resented his presence. Would he respect the atmosphere she had cultivated, even now with Henry in mind? She thought not. In the street young men on Rollerblades rushed past her like demons, or dropped nervelessly from the high cabs of articulated lorries, taking for granted an equilibrium which they had as yet no reason to distrust. She could hardly tell this Steve to go out all day, although a moment’s reflection told her that this was what he would choose to do. In herself she held no attractions for a young person. That was part of the humiliation of being overruled … She would be nervous, apologetic, regretting her lack of experience. She could at least make him comfortable, she decided. And then she would keep out of his way. She would convey, somehow, that she was not to be disturbed, regrettingthat she had no great work to occupy her. He was not to know this. ‘You’ll forgive me if I leave you to your own devices.’ she would say, pleasantly. ‘There is something I have to get on with. I suggest you make arrangements to see your friends, Ann, and, yes, David. I’m sure you have plenty to talk about. I’ll give you a key. But really, Steve, I expect we shall see very little of each other, don’t you?’

There were three bedrooms in the flat, her own, the room in which Henry had died, and a small spare room in which he occasionally took a nap. The narrow divan bed seemed to retain the impress of his body, as if his ghost slept there. She stood in the doorway, reluctant to enter. It was a pleasant room, sunny and quiet, although it overlooked the street. In the daytime the street was silent, empty except for old people like herself. It was an elderly neighbourhood of quiet middle-class residents, most of whom she knew by sight, and with whom she exchanged greetings when she went out to do her morning shopping. This restraint occasionally made her sigh, although it was natural, if not entirely reassuring. She would have preferred evidence of a robust male presence, of someone who would take control in an emergency, but through the spare room window she could see only mute closed doors and undisturbed curtains. Many people were away, of course; it was still summer, although the first week in September, and exceptionally hot. Yet the houses looked closed against the street, which was itself deserted, without even the sound of a passing car to disturb this prolonged holiday trance.
    The room seemed abandoned, as all rarely entered rooms do, given over to the memory of Henry lying there on winter afternoons. He had always slept voluptuously, had had easy access to sleep, could sleep at any time. It was when he felt sleep gaining on him that he repaired to the spare room for an hour, to reappear, fully restored, when she prepared tea. Christmas day was his favourite time for sleep, so that she spent the lightless hours of that long silent afternoon on her own, reading, and reflecting that in essence nothing much had changed since her girlhood, when she had spent most of her leisure time reading on her bed. She did not mind the temporary solitude, to which she was after all accustomed; what she did mind was the winter, with its stealthy darkness, and the mortal quiet of the garden. For this reason, when it was time to make the tea, she clattered the cups a little more than was necessary, until Henry, his face still blank from the onslaught of his sleep, came to join her.
    Of that other unentered room she preferred not to think. It was empty now, empty of Henry and also of all evidence of his illness. When the last oxygen cylinder had been removed she had closed the door behind her as if the room had been condemned, as if it had been decreed that death had marked it forever. There was no question of anyone ever using the room again, and yet it was agreeable and overlooked the garden, as did her own. It was