You did die. We talked so often of your dying, and you

were determined not to, not just yet. But you did die. Nearly

four months ago, and I still cannot believe it. Most people

do not want to talk about death and mourning. I want to

talk of it all the time because you are the person who I have

loved the most, and you have died. I know all about the

outer world of social responsibility, so no one can accuse me

of continuing to grieve for you. You did not wish to leave

your wife and your daughter and your brother, and some of

your colleagues and friends. You did not wish to leave me

either, and I do not know how to live without you. You

knew it would be so.

You had not intended to take a proper holiday this year,

but in August you were forced to rest. It was the end of a

London summer which had been filled with fatigue and

worries and too much work. You would have cbntinued, but

you could not. You went with your wife to your house in the

west country. I know it only from your descriptions. It is a

small house; you said like a hut. It stands above the sea and

the cliffs on a hill where scrub-oaks grow. The country is

wild. You planted shrubs round the house and on the hill.

You took flowering currant and buddleia from the gardener

at the hospital and planted them in the spring. The bracken

always annoyed you. It grew so fast in the summer and

smothered your plants while you were away. That was how

you found it when you arrived. You had arranged for it to

be kept, but people are not always reliable. You started to

work, cutting the bracken on the hill. You worked and

worked, and refused to leave some for another day. It was

at the end of August, and you came upon a wasp's nest. I

was told that as you started away from it up the hill, your

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