Thirty minutes later I’m washed and dressed and on my way to Lewes bus station. I left a note for Sonia with Mr Hutchinson, who was manning the reception desk. In it I told her that I was going for a walk; that I needed to be alone to gather my thoughts. I thanked her for leaving the two codeine tablets on the kitchen counter last night and said that I would be back at the B & B no later than 3 p.m.

Thankfully the streets are quiet as I head into the town centre. I still feel weak and confused and the thought of bumping into someone from the village or the school or, worse still, Barbara, fills me with dread. I pull the hood of my coat up, put my head down, and don’t look up until I reach the bus station.

At the concourse I stand for a moment to read the timetable. I haven’t caught a bus in years and with my limited brain function the timetable reads like a complex mathematical equation.

‘You all right there, love?’ says a male voice from behind.

I turn to see a man in his late sixties. He’s got a newspaper under his arm and a polystyrene cup of tea in his hand.

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I reply, turning back to the timetable. ‘Just looking.’

I hope the tone of my voice deters him from pursuing a conversation. My speech still isn’t fully recovered. I can think of words in my head, and they sound right, but when I try to say more than a sentence or two they come out all jumbled. I really don’t need the embarrassment of having this stranger pity me. But I can sense him still standing behind me.

‘Which bus are you after?’ he says, tapping me on the shoulder.

His touch makes me flinch and I jump backwards, clutching my chest.

‘Hey, it’s okay,’ he says, his eyes widening. ‘I’m not going to hurt you, just thought you needed a hand making sense of that blooming timetable. It’s as clear as mud.’

He smiles warmly and I suddenly feel bad for acting so jumpy. He’s just a chatty pensioner, not some serial killer.

‘I need to get to …’

I look at him blankly. What is the name of the village? It’s completely gone.

‘Yes, dear?’ says the man gently.

‘Erm … sorry, I … my mind’s gone blank,’ I say. ‘I need to get to … the village … the village where Virginia Woolf lived.’

‘Ah, Rodmell,’ says the man.

‘Yes,’ I cry, clapping my hands together. ‘Rodmell.’

I mutter the name under my breath several times, terrified in case I forget it again.

‘Well, that’s easy,’ he says, jabbing his finger at the timetable. ‘I live just near there. It’s the 123 towards Newhaven you want. Rodmell’s the sixth stop. Next one’s due any minute now.’