Johannah had read once that when a man marries a woman, it is her hand he will hold in the final moments of his life. She remembered being diverted by the sentiment, by the prophetic and powerful drama of the words, but then she’d read on, conveniently forgetting what had turned out to be a truer prediction of her fate than she’d ever dreamed.
She paused in the action of filing the four remaining death certificates she had no idea what to do with. She’d ordered nine, one for The Building Society, another for the church, the bank, Mickey’s life insurance company and their solicitor. At the time, it seemed like a good idea to have a few extra, just in case the utility companies required evidence that she, Hannie, a man’s wife for thirty years, four months, twenty-six days and seven hours, and now his widow was, by default, the responsible party.