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express himself when he wished to but, as Emily well knew, he was just bone lazy most of the time.
    He even had the grace to admit it. A letter several months later stated,
    I may have been a little lax in my correspondence (yes, yes, all right – lazy), but I have been far from lax or lazy in my efforts to accelerate the bureaucratic process. The man from the Immigration Department assures me the papers will be through any day now and I have already approached the P&O shipping line for dates and details.
    I opened the last of Harry’s letters. It was written in his customary lighthearted vein but, when I got to the end, he took me totally by surprise.
    Emily, My Dearest,
    I count the weeks, the days, the hours until I see you. You are in my heart and I pray that, until the very last breath I take, you shall always be by my side.
    Your loving husband to be,
Harry.
    I looked at the letter and felt a sudden pang of conscience at having read it. I returned it to its envelope and, as I was retying the blue ribbon around the small bundle of his letters, I glanced up at the open wardrobe door.
    8th Nov. 1948, my beloved Harry died,
    A tear blurred my vision. Harry’s prayer had obviously been answered. Emily had indeed been by his side until the very last breath he’d taken.
    I was tired, I decided as I wiped away the tear. Tired and overly emotional. I hadn’t eaten, I was cramped and cold from sitting on the floor – I should go to bed. I could leave Margaret’s letters until tomorrow. But they sat there looking at me. ‘Mrs Harry Roper’, they read. By now Emily was married. Maybe I’d read just the first few. I opened the top envelope.
    Dear Emily,
    How strange to be addressing you as ‘Mrs Harry Roper’. My dear friend, I am so happy for you. I am happy for you both. Do give Harry my very best wishes. Although we only met on those several occasions when I returned to Halstead, I liked him very much and it is obvious he loves you dearly.
    Yes, I have heard that Sydney is extraordinarily beautiful and I am delighted that you are so taken by the city. But then I am not particularly surprised – you seem to delight in your surrounds wherever you are. It is possibly your greatest charm and one I quite envy from time to time. Personally, I find so many places and people tedious.
    The house sounds picturesque but, truly, you must have the bathroom built as soon as possible. It sounds positively heathen bathing out of bowls and buckets.
    Margaret went on with a bit of a whinge about her job at the library and the London summer.  
    Thank goodness autumn is coming on, I do so hate the heat. How you are going to handle your first Australian summer is beyond me. I shall think of you, my dear, when I return to Halstead for Christmas. I shall think of you as I nestle before the log fire in mother’s front sitting room and look out at the blanket of snow and the old elm tree we used to climb all those years ago, remember?
    Oh, Emily, I do miss you so and I do wish you every happiness in your new life.
    Your loving friend,
Margaret.
    On to the next letter (I’d read just two more, I promised myself). It was dated 24th November, 1921.
    Emily, My Darling,
    What thrilling news! And of course I am deeply, deeply honoured that you should ask me to be the child’s godmother. I have posted you a gift, which I have had specially made. It will reach you well before the event, but I am not going to tell you what it is. Oh, my dear, I am so excited.
    And the bathroom! Well, about time! You will certainly need a bathroom with a baby on the way.
    I skipped through the rest of that letter and went on to the next. Margaret’s present had arrived. It was the christening robe, of course!
    My Dear Emily,
    I am so glad you like the robe. Yes, it is beautiful, isn’t it? I had it specially sent from France. It is of handmade Chantilly lace and will last from generation to generation. The sons and daughters of your own children can be baptised