But I’ve come this far. I can’t lose my nerve now. The bus starts to slow. We must be getting close. I look out of the window and see the village. This is it. I’m home. I stand up and make my way down the aisle, my head fizzing with a mixture of adrenaline and fear.

‘Thank you,’ I say to the driver when I get to the doors.

‘No bother,’ he says. ‘Oh and just so you know. The name of this place is Rodmell. Is that what you were wanting?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘Here,’ he says, handing me a leaflet. ‘Have this. It’s got all the return times on.’

It’s a timetable with every village name clearly printed. I am so grateful it’s like he’s just handed me a million pounds.

‘Thank you,’ I say, tears prickling my eyes. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘No worries,’ he says, with a laugh. ‘It’s only a timetable.’

Then he presses a button and the bus doors open. I turn and walk down the steps, like a hesitant child. I hear the doors close then the bus pulls away.

I stand for a moment taking it all in. Everything is as it was three months ago: the pretty flint cottages, the narrow country lane and the pub where Sean and I used to take Elspeth for Sunday lunch. She loved their ice cream sundaes and the fact they had a resident cat, a fat ginger tom called Archie. The last time we were there the landlord told us that Archie had got into a fight with a fox and had needed stitches. He’d pointed to a bench on the far side of the bar where the poor old cat was curled up asleep. He was wearing one of those plastic ruffs round his neck to stop him picking at the stitches. Elspeth was distraught and asked if she could take her meal over to where Archie was. She spent the entire afternoon cuddled up next to him, feeding him bits of fish finger.

I turn away from the pub and start to walk, the ground bumpy and uneven under my feet, and then I see it up ahead: the church. As I draw closer I see the gate to the churchyard. Someone has left it open and it swings back and forth in the breeze. I walk towards it in a daze, my eyes stinging with dried tears, but when I get to the gate I pause. There, on the other side, conspicuous amongst the lichen-covered stones, is a fresh grave. The stone is white and though I can’t see the lettering I know from the mounds of purple flowers, teddy bears and balloons who it belongs to.

‘No,’ I cry, clasping my hand to my mouth. ‘Oh God, no.’