Dearest Digby, 2001–2007
Died in heroic action saving his beloved mistress. Much missed by all those who loved him,
especially Maggie and Alex.
May you burrow down many holes in heaven.

Hot tears sprang sharply to my eyes. I stood and gazed until my father appeared behind me and put an arm round my shoulders. ‘Come on, old thing. Let’s get you home,’ he said, and for once I was happy to leave. Deep down I think I knew it would be all right one day, that I would come back to Pendarlin in the end, the good history would win out. My mother and Gar and a hundred happy childhood memories would emerge from beneath the thunder clouds again. But right now I needed distance from the place.

In London I went back to the flat above the cake-shop, but I couldn’t settle. Alex had apparently taken it off the market, and until I decided what to do next, I was glad – although I knew I wouldn’t stay there for long. I visited Gar every day and she was as quiet and lost in her own world as ever, if a little more frail. She’d developed a bad cough and I sensed Susan was trying to warn me that it might not be long before my grandmother gave up the fight.

Bel kept ringing me, harassing me about Australia. Charlie kept ringing me, offering me work. I hid away again, alone, trying to decide what to do with the rest of my life. I’d have to decide soon because my small savings account was almost empty. I attended my appointments at Guy’s Hospital religiously and walked by the high grey Thames in the mornings before the banks got busy with tourists, down to Shakespeare’s old Globe and the Tate and back again, missing Digby desperately. I found myself yearning to take up running again, enviously watching the sweating joggers pounding past me into the distance while I was still grounded. ‘When you’re fit,’ said the fresh-faced young physio, manipulating my damaged leg, ‘don’t rush. It won’t help.’

I arrived back from Gar’s one evening just before Christmas to be intercepted in front of the flat by a fur-swathed Mrs Forlani, emerging dramatically from the festive crowd.

‘Bellissima, your lovely boyfriend, he left this for you.’ She nudged me playfully. ‘He is so tall, no? I think that is so handsome in a man. Correct, you know. Me, I never like the short men. I say to Matteo when we marry, you must grow a few inches.’ Her parcels nearly went flying as she gave a theatrical shrug. ‘But he never do.’

‘Right.’ I took the packages she was brandishing at me, lost for words. ‘Goodness. Thank you.’