He stared at the most recent page, rubbing his hands over his face and taking a deep breath of the slightly musty air in the little-used room. He was looking at September last year, the month before he keeled over. The wages, marked down weekly. Sixteen pounds each for the men. Twelve pounds for Sally. He leafed forward and found blank pages. Who had been paying them while he’d been sick? He had no idea. Jesus. What a mess. He poked dismally at a pile of papers and a cheque from the Milk Marketing Board for three hundred and sixty pounds fell out, dated the middle of October. That needed to go to the bank, for a start. It slid to the floor and he watched it settle on the dusty faded red, blue and brown patterned carpet.
“Sally!” he called loudly, hoping she would hear him from wherever she was in the house. “Sally?”