And I said yes.
And we did it in that room, and for that bit of time the two of us were as happy as I have ever been.
And a month later he was gone.
And I was in pieces.
And the day after the funeral somebody knocked at my door.
It was his solicitor. And he gave me a box and he said:
“He was right about you. You walked straight into it. This is for you. He’s left you something. Something you deserve.”
And I opened it.
What was in it.
No money.
Nothing of any value at all, and that is the point of it and it took me a year to understand.
There were four things.
A bundle of letters he had written to me between 1970 and 1974, which came back to him, every one, marked not known at this address.
A page from the hospital — a ward allocation sheet from the February of 2025 with a line on it in his handwriting.
