I take a seat at her table, and Bett combs my hair. She works silently, more gentle than I expect, holding clumps near the top and tugging below her hand. The comb is wooden, and she uses the wide-toothed side so it does not catch. There’s a strange comfort in being cared for this way. She pulls my hair from my face, winds and pins it at my neck, and stands back, hands on hips.

‘Nearly there,’ she says. She pours water into a bowl and brings a rag, dipping it in and wiping my face and the back of my neck. The water is cold and the cloth rough, but I close my eyes and make no sound. She takes each of my hands, washing the back, turning them and washing the palm, pressing the rag under my fingernails and scrubbing.

‘And now,’ she says, ‘a woman’s secret.’

She fetches from the shelf a small pot of pink powder that carries a scent of rose, dips in her finger and pats a little on each of my cheeks.

She lays the coif on the table. Plain linen, shaped to cover forehead and ear. Just as she wears, just as every village woman wears. Seeing it here, a memory of Mam removing one and placing it down like this flickers.

‘Go on,’ Bett says.

I put it on. Laughing, she shakes her head, pulls it down harder at the back, tighter over my forehead, tucking in any loose strands of hair. She steps away, arms crossed. I watch her, uneasy as the cloth presses against my head.

‘Now we’re there,’ she says. ‘No, wait. Shoes.’

She takes the candle into the other room, leaving me at the table. The room quiet and lit by the lilting flames from the fire, the sound of gently crackling wood and the distant rolling of waves, nothing more. Calm.

Returning, she wipes dust off a pair of brown leather shoes. ‘Old,’ she says. ‘Sorry.’

I had shoes as a child, I remember looking down at the shiny toes. Cannot recall the feel of them now.

She kneels, placing them in front of me, and I push my feet in. Too big, but once she’s laced them they fit a little better. Enough to stay on my feet, at least.

Bett sits back. ‘Walk,’ she says.

I stand. The weight unbalances me. I lift my foot, too high. Take a step, too far.

Bett laughs. ‘Keep going. Practice is all you need.’

I walk around the room, steps too large, too slow, as though I am wading through water.

‘You look like a duck,’ she says.

‘I can’t do it,’ I say. Feel like crying but laughter comes instead.

She wipes her eyes, hiccups down mirth, smiles encouragingly. ‘Yes, you can. Keep at it.’

Around and around I go, past fire, bedroom, front door, pans on the wall. At last my steps are smaller, swifter.

‘There,’ she says. ‘Perfect.’