My father’s partner died in April. A chest infection became pneumonia and took her with merciful speed. It might have been shockingly fast had it not been long presaged by a cough that sounded like bony fingers rattling the doorknob. Most of us thought that the door would give in the winter, when the ill-fit windows and fuming wood stove of their cottage, Penchwarel, struggled to hold back the Welsh mud. Much better in the spring though.