‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I really appreciate your help.’

‘Not a bother, dear,’ he says. ‘You like her, do you?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Mrs Woolf,’ he says. ‘I’m guessing that’s why you’re off to Rodmell. To see Monk’s House? Where she used to live?’

‘Er … yes … yes, that’s right,’ I reply, looking over his head to see if the bus is coming yet.

‘Oh, we get a lot of fans here, making the pilgrimage to Monk’s House, particularly on the anniversary of her suicide,’ he says, taking a sip of tea. ‘When I was a taxi driver I used to get loads of them. They’d start off here in Lewes, get off at Rodmell to see the house then they’d go to the spot where her body was found in the river at Southease and lay flowers. Funny lot they were. All dressed in black with pale faces. Most of them looked like they could have done with a good meal. You look pretty normal to me.’

I smile politely. I just want the bus to arrive so I can get on with what I need to do.

‘Thank you,’ I say, moving away from him. ‘You’ve been really kind.’

‘Once a taxi driver, eh?’ he says, raising his newspaper in farewell. ‘Anyway, dear, I’ll go and wait for my bus. I’m off to Haywards Heath to see my daughter. Cheerio now. Safe journey.’

He walks over to the bench by the station cafe, sits down and opens his newspaper, leaving me to wait for the 123 alone. The station is pretty grim and hasn’t altered much since Ben and I used to come here to get the bus to Brighton when we were kids.

As the bus pulls up I catch a glimpse of myself in the window and think about the beautiful, carefree fourteen-year-old I had once been, before the dark thing happened. Now I look like a hollowed-out shell, a ghost woman trapped between worlds.

When the bus pulls up I wait while two schoolboys clamber on. Once they’ve got their tickets I climb the steps.

‘Yes, love?’ says the driver, a young man with a goatee beard.

I open my mouth to say the name of the village, the name I’ve just spent the last few minutes reciting under my breath, but I can’t remember it.

‘Where would you like to go?’ says the driver, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, laughing nervously. ‘I’ve completely forgotten the name of the village. I think it begins with “D”.’

The driver shakes his head then presses some buttons on his machine.

‘I’ll do you a day return,’ he says as a long white ticket snakes towards me. ‘You can get off at any stop along this route with this ticket then back again.’