The doors of the waiting train hum and close as the line of carriages jerks to life. Once it has passed, the crossing arms wobble to life and begin to rise. The people either side of Hazel – young mum with baby, man in yellow tabard – duck under the rising barriers and make their way across the railway line. The woman’s ponytail has an efficient swing to chime with her stride. Hazel hesitates, looks both ways, makes sure the train is moving away from her, then counts the steps she takes to reach the other side. It should be ten. She is obliged to make an extra-large one to avoid it being eleven.

With careful steps, she walks along the side of Waitrose and waits on the kerb for a good time to cross. This can be tricky as it’s better if there are distant cars or no cars on both sides to give a sense of balance (it can be busier at six-thirty in the morning than you’d think). Today there is nothing in sight and Hazel crosses, taking care to step over the white line in the middle so that her feet land with equidistant thuds on the other side.

She turns the corner into Newbarn Road and sees the young mum ahead of her. If your body acts with confidence, your feelings will follow. That’s what Moira, the counsellor, had said. Hazel stands up straight and tries to imitate the woman’s buoyant stride. The pavement narrows as she navigates the postbox. She brushes against it, smearing her jacket with dirt and dew. Horrified, she stops to examine her arm. The pale sleeve is grubby, daubed with damp and the remains of a cobweb. Number 10. Above all, breathe! (She reads the list of Coping Strategies every morning and can see the exclamation mark in her head.)

She is almost at the corner of Broom Hill. She breathes and looks up. And this is when she sees the woman, standing on the corner. She is so striking – tall and broad, somehow imposing, filling the space on the pavement as if she owns it – that Hazel forgets about her sleeve and stares. What on earth is this woman doing just standing there at six-thirty in the morning? Hazel creeps along the pavement and looks both ways three times, preparing to cross, even though she knows a side road like this will be free of traffic at this time of day. The woman sees her.

‘Good morning!’ she calls. Her voice, although quiet, is deep and projects across the road to where Hazel is standing. It holds the hint of a chuckle. ‘You’re up early!’

Hazel is taken aback. She is always up around this time, walking the streets of Oldbridge. When she had told Moira about her upbringing in the country and the long walk at the start of each day, the counsellor had advised her to walk for her mental health.