thirteen
Sunday morning was grey and drizzly. A bleak, miserable January day that made the prospect of staying in bed for a few hours longer than normal very palatable. Elizabeth read her latest novel, in between dozing. When she finally arose, she found it was too late for breakfast, so prepared a small roast for one.
Sometimes she forgot she was cooking just for herself; sometimes she set two placemats at the dinner table, sometimes she put English mustard out – a condiment which had been Martin’s favourite. Today was one of those days that she felt his loss tug at her heartstrings. Her thoughts were occupied by him and a sense of melancholy had invaded her home.
It was so quiet in the flat that she could hear the people upstairs moving about and laughing. As she sat eating her lunch,
