“Yes, that would be lovely,” says Lily, though she’s never liked the taste of coffee and the thought of it now makes her feel sick again.

Mrs. Thorogood gets back onto the coach to a stern word from her husband and Lily watches it pull away, listening to the pistons firing as it negotiates the bend past the Old Vicarage. She decides to cut across the churchyard, and as she turns to do so a chill breeze ripples along the hedgerow. The weather has turned. It is as though they left in summer and have returned in autumn. The wind whistles between the headstones, eddying small whirlwinds of leaves. It’s late, almost midnight, but she can still see well enough, the dark shadow of the church picked out against the industrial glow of the city in the distance. Lily’s eyes dart, as always, toward the grave where her parents are buried. Sometimes she sees her mother here, as she was when they came to visit Dad, moaning and weeping like the women you see on the news after an earthquake. Auntie Vi used to say Mam was very Mediterranean in her grief.

A sudden gust of wind tears open her cardigan, and one of the church bells tolls faintly, as though it’s a little embarrassed. The shadows slide and merge along the churchyard walls. Ahead of her and a little to the left there is a darker, thicker patch. Is there someone crouched there? She hears the echo of her footsteps and resists the urge to turn and look behind. She tries to shake off morbid thoughts. Daydreaming. Unproductive, her mother would call it. Self-indulgent, Edna would add.

She negotiates her way past the kissing gate, using the opportunity to look back through the churchyard. She sees no one, but she can’t shake the feeling there’s someone there. Someone watching. She crosses the road and makes her way up the path to the cottage. As she steps through the gate she suddenly feels blissfully, inexplicably happy. Everything seems distant and fuzzy, as though the events of the day happened to someone else. She is home. She is safe.

She pushes down on the handle of the front door and finds it locked. It’s nighttime; of course it’s locked. But something is wrong. She can feel it. She reaches into her purse for her keys but can’t find them. Her mother has joined her now. Hurry up, Lillian, what will the neighbors think? They’re hardly likely to be watching at this hour. Why is she here? What use is she in a crisis? Edna is the one who always knows what to do. It’s Edna she needs. It always has been. Edna!