Darling,’ she said, ‘don’t think it’s easy. I’ve never done anything so hard. It would be so much easier to die. You come into everything. I can never again see a Nissen hut—or a Morris car. Or taste a pink gin. See a black face. Even a bed … one has to sleep in a bed. I don’t know where I’ll get away from you. It’s no use saying in a year it will be all right. It’s a year I’ve got to get through. All the time knowing you are somewhere. I could send a telegram or a letter and you’d have to read it, even if you didn’t reply.’ He thought: how much easier it would be for her if I were dead. ‘But
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