West Downs Natural Burial Ground, it says, in large carved letters.

He zips up the front of his coat, then walks down the path. He knows where he’s going.

Twenty years ago, this area was no more than a large field. Small saplings had been planted at regular intervals and he remembers standing there, dew seeping into his trainers.

‘Are you sure this is the place?’ he said to his sister.

Georgia nodded. ‘I remember Dad mentioning it. He said it was a good idea. Of course, he didn’t meant it for himself, but…’ Her face crumpled and Robin leaned over, putting his arm tightly round her shoulders, pulling her close.

Their mum was already dead. He doesn’t remember much of her – a woman with long straight brown hair and a broad smile. He struggles to distinguish the images of her in his head: genuine memories or ones taken from the many photos their father had shown them. Robin had been eight when she’d died. Ovarian cancer, and the aggressive kind.

And from then on it had been the three of them. His sister, only ten, forced to grow up fast, cooking and looking after him while their dad was at work. He’d done his part, working in menial jobs to pay his way through sixth form and university. Until a gasping call late at night from Georgia told him their father was dead. Heart attack. Nothing anyone could have done.

And they buried him there. Ashes in an easily decomposable cardboard box, a small wooden plaque noting his spot.

Robin stands here now. The oak marker has aged with time, dirty and worn, and Robin bends down, running his fingers over the carved lettering. Gordon Butler. Died August 2000.

And Georgia was right, of course. The woodland has grown into a beautiful spot. Even in the grey drizzle, the leaves provide a dappled canopy of greens and browns. It’s peaceful, only the gentle rustling of the wind in the trees, and the flap of a disturbed pigeon. Robin has always had the intention to move his mother’s ashes from the more formal graveyard in their hometown, but he’s never got round to it. He makes the resolve anew in his head. They should all be together.

Robin hears footsteps and turns towards the sound. A tall man is walking towards him, head bowed, a small blue flowering plant in a pot in his hand.

‘I hoped you’d be here,’ Liam says when he’s closer. Robin notices he doesn’t reach out a hand or offer a hug as he would have done in the past. Robin doesn’t blame him.

His brother-in-law walks past him to the next tree and places the pot plant at the bottom. He takes a trowel from his pocket, digs a small hole, then pulls the plant from its pot, placing it in the dirt. He pushes the mud back down hard with his hands.