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‘Thank you again,’ the brother said as he pulled on his cap and left the house, and she could tell he meant it.

Fleur returned to make the tea, taking the time to warm the pot. Helen was resting her head in her hands, and Fleur understood the woman was coming to terms with the fact that the man laid out on the table was no longer her husband, but the vessel that held him. That’s what Fleur needed to see happening; then she knew she would feel comfortable to make a bolder move when the right moment came along. Arthur’s soul had already been set free, and Fleur saw the kitchen window was open to permit that; the window in the bedroom where he’d died was probably open to the chill morning air for the same purpose. She reheated the kettle, bringing it back to boiling, and while she waited for the telltale whistle, she reached for a tin, guessing that it might be the tea caddy as she didn’t wish to disturb the widow’s thoughts.

‘Er, no, the other one,’ the woman said hastily as Fleur paused, her hand on the tin. ‘I use that one to store rat poison.’

A chill went through Fleur as the pieces clicked into place. Fleur stared at her half-amused, mouth open. ‘Good grief!’

‘We have a bit of a problem in this street and I can handle the odd mouse, but the rats look large enough to carry my children away.’ Helen made an attempt at a smile.

Fleur gave the chuckle that was needed. ‘Do you know, I’ve learned we may have a similar problem in our street.’ She still didn’t believe it, but Helen’s admission gave more credence to Irma’s actions.

‘Arthur put the rat killer in there. I told him at the time it wasn’t a bright idea to put it in the old tea tin, especially not having it in the kitchen.’ Tears welled again. ‘That was only two days ago when the new box he bought got damp.’

Fleur spoke quickly to distract her. ‘Shall I put the tin up on this shelf instead, nice and high?’ She opened it first. ‘I’ve never actually seen rat poison. Can it kill us as well, I wonder?’ Her question was rhetorical; she knew it was toxic.

‘Awful stuff. Liver goes first. You’ve heard of arsenic being the best way to get rid of your husband?’ she quipped and then realised what she’d said. Her expression crumpled. ‘Oh, no!’ She began to weep.

Fleur quickly put her arm around the woman’s shaking shoulders. ‘Come on, now. I know you didn’t mean that. Tell me more about Arthur while we wait.’

After sharing the pot of tea she’d made for them, and listening to Helen Bedford’s tears come, dry and then return at happier recollections of her life with her husband, Fleur removed a small box from the bag she’d brought.

‘Helen,’ she said, glad to be on first-name terms now. ‘I’ve brought two items for you. Firstly, I want you to have this gift.’ She handed the box to her companion, who frowned as it was placed in her hands.

‘What’s this?’

Fleur smiled. ‘A small token from Appleby’s. Thank you for choosing us to look after your husband until he reaches his final resting place. We hope you can enjoy using this to keep remembering all the good times,’ she said, nodding so Helen might feel encouraged to lift the lid.

She did, and gasped. ‘A locket. For me?’

Fleur couldn’t help the jolt of delight she felt inside at Helen’s pleasure. This was something she’d wanted to do for a few years, but she had only recently had the courage to have the lockets made. She’d ordered only a dozen, using her savings, but she knew they would be a powerful way of spreading the good word. Helen’s response only reinforced what she’d anticipated, and Fleur knew she would now produce many more with company money – if her father was prepared to provide it – to give lockets to widows and grieving mothers as part of her service.

‘It’s engraved,’ Helen said, in awe.

Fleur didn’t wish to correct her that it was enamelled, and simply smiled. ‘It says “Not lost, but gone before”, which I think is a rather lovely sentiment to keep in your mind about Arthur.’

‘Oh, Fleur, it’s beautiful.’ Helen wept.

‘Open it,’ Fleur encouraged her. ‘And perhaps you can put a small photo of Mr Bedford in there so he’s always close to your heart.’ She quickly handed Helen a handkerchief. ‘Don’t apologise,’ she said before Helen could remonstrate. ‘It would be unusual if you didn’t cry. These are good tears on behalf of a good man who will be missed.’

Helen nodded. ‘But never forgotten,’ she whispered, dabbing at her eyes. ‘Oh, I know just the picture to use. Thank you. I don’t know what to say. This is most touching.’

‘I’m glad you like it,’ Fleur said. ‘And in the hallway, Helen, I’ve put a laurel wreath. With your permission, I might hang it on your door, so your neighbours understand there has been a death and you won’t be disturbed by casual callers. But maybe the close neighbours will want to visit and commiserate.’

Helen shook her head in disbelief. ‘I can’t believe how kind you are, Fleur. I’m going to have to tell everyone at work about you – I’m a nurse at the hospital. I hope you don’t mind?’

‘I don’t mind a bit! I’d love you to let all those you know that Appleby’s is developing its service. I want to offer grieving women especially a small sense of lightness in their hearts in whatever manner I can, whether it’s by being supportive of their needs, or through these tiny gifts to show we care about those left behind as much as we care for those who have passed.’

Helen nodded. ‘I called Appleby’s because your father collected and organised the burial of my father. Are you in charge of the funeral parlour now?’

‘One day. I think my father would like to retire and hand over the reins.’

‘I didn’t think a woman could . . .’

‘What?’

‘Oh, you know.’ She shrugged.

Fleur thought she might as well start presenting her argument now. ‘I think a woman can do anything she sets her mind to, and I personally think the time is here for us to become more visible in funerals.’