I requested no letters. People wrote anyway. Letters were a comfort, the praise of the loved one a solace

Grant was not very complimentary about the Scottish plumbing. “This would never happen in Canada,” he said. “Pipes running up the outside of the house wouldn’t last one week in the winter there.” My father died in March. It was very sad. Trying to look on the bright side, I said to myself he was 87 years old, had had a good life with very little illness and lived long enough to see a great-granddaughter born.

Shortly afterwards Grant returned to Canada. “I bought a return ticket, Mum, in case I decided to go back. I don’t quite know what I’ll do. Before I left I asked Jerry if I could have my job back.

“At first he said yes but when I got there he said no – I don’t blame him. I did let him down and he’s not a bad guy. I’m going north again, though.

“There’s more work further north and the place fascinates me.” And so off he flew. That was the last time he was to see his father.

Concern

After my father died that spring, Ronald’s health was increasingly giving concern.

His broken leg had mended and he was out of his wheelchair but, because of the artery problems in his legs, found walking difficult. He wouldn’t give up, though, and went doggedly on.

Michael had come home late that summer after his adventures in America and Canada. Michael was at a loose end.

“How about staying at home and working with Richard?” his father had asked. Ben, the last of the men, had come of retiring age.

“Two are needed to work the farm and I’m not able to do much physically these days.

“We’ve cut down the amount of hay grown and the amount of cattle for feeding.

“You just won’t need to go near the hay or the cattle. Richard will see to them and we can get extra help in at hay time.

“Okay, Dad, I’ll give it a go,” said Michael. Richard and Michael got on pretty well together and their dad would be the boss.

Michael, like his father before him, was beginning to learn that the grass was not necessarily greener on the other side.

However well one is prepared for the death of a husband, I think it must come as a great shock.

I was prepared in one sense. Oh yes, I’d been told that his health was in a very precarious state by several doctors.

In my mind I had faced the possibility even, but it’s not the same as the actuality and even although he was a semi-invalid, I didn’t really believe he wouldn’t go on living for a long time.

Somehow or other I would keep him alive. But it was not to be.

In December Ronald began to have trouble with his chest. I got the doctor down.

We had a new doctor now. He was very different from the old Dr Edington, who was now retired, but like him, compassionate and a very hard worker who loved his job.

“I think you will have to go into hospital for a day or two to have tests,” he told Ronald. “I’d rather not,” came Ronald’s reply. “I hate hospitals. Perhaps I won’t come out again.”

“Of course you will,” said the doctor. “It’s only for tests.” “I’m not going,” said Ronald. The doctor was most understanding.

“I’ll see if I can get the consultant to come down here and bring his equipment,” he said. With that Ronald had to be satisfied.

Devastated

The consultant did come down with his equipment but, unfortunately, had the wrong plugs. He was not nearly so patient as our doctor.

“My time is precious,” he complained. “I don’t have time to go changing plugs. You’ll just have to come into hospital.” And he was gone.

Reluctantly Ronald obeyed. Three days later he was dead. I couldn’t believe it.

I was devastated but somehow or other I managed to keep going over the funeral.

I requested no letters. How could I possible face reading them, far less answer them? But here, as in many other things, I was wrong.

People wrote anyway. Letters were a comfort, praise of the loved one a solace. I got letters from people I hadn’t heard of in years.

I got letters from poetry people. Howard Sergeant wrote: “I send you not my sympathy but my understanding love.”

I found that, after all, I didn’t mind writing back. Talking about Ronald, writing about him, kept him alive for a bit longer.

For ages afterwards, from time to time, I would forget he was not there and do things like set his place at the table.

For someone who hasn’t been through this, it’s hard to explain how it feels to have half of you gone. The half that you trusted and relied on.

Now I was solely responsible for the welfare of the family – a daunting prospect, it seemed. For their sake I would have to keep going.

And life went on. There were practical things that had to be done. In order to avoid double death duties I had been left the life rent.

After me, the farm was left between all the children. Ronald had not been able to see how, otherwise, he could be fair to them all.

He had not thought it possible that we could go on with the farm. There were decisions to make. Family gatherings were necessary.

Remarkable

It was decided that the farm would continue. There was no reason why it shouldn’t.

Richard, Michael and I had all been made partners and because of that, owned some of it. It was all very complicated.

Lawyers could have made a hey day out of it. “Your family is remarkable,” said our family lawyer.

“You all agree about things. Not one dissenter. Anything’s possible where there is agreement and compromise.”

Through compromise, it was agreed we would keep on the farm.

All these things and the everyday work helped to keep me sane but I found I had completely lost confidence.

It was a struggle just to go out, even to the supermarket. Or driving even. And I couldn’t trust myself, couldn’t be sure that I wouldn’t burst into tears.

It had happened once or twice already; in the clothes shop when I gone to get a hat for the funeral, the floor girl who served me hadn’t known what she’d done wrong when she said: “How nice of your husband to give you a hat for Christmas.”

Or in the butcher’s shop when someone had been kind. Or more rarely when someone was being unkind, I had to be careful. I hadn’t believed I could be so vulnerable.