So, Esther wondered, had her aunt relented? If so, it was only in recent years since she herself had left.

She stood up and looked about her. Next to her mother’s grave there was an empty space, the ground flat, the turf unturned. But beyond that there was a mound of recently dug earth, on which lay a fresh bunch of flowers. At the head of the grave was a headstone which matched the one on her mother’s grave. A simple, white marble stone.

‘In loving memory of Rebecca Benson, beloved wife of William Benson, departed this life 30th March 1919, aged 62 years. Her reward is in Heaven.’

Esther stood back and looked at the two identical headstones. First at one and then at the other. A small gasp escaped her lips. Had Will really had the nerve to . . . ?

A voice spoke behind her. ‘So you’ve found them then?’

Esther swung round to see him standing there.

They stared at each other. Silently Esther pointed, first at the stone on her mother’s grave then at his wife’s. ‘Will, you didn’t?’

Will Benson grinned, a wicked glint in his eye. ‘Oh, but I did, Esther lass, I did. No one would have put up a stone to yar mam, if I hadn’t. I bought these two plots at the side of yar mother after she was buried.’ His voice dropped. ‘God rest her.’ He paused and then nodded at the empty space between the two graves. ‘That’s my spot when I go, Esther lass.’

He looked at her keenly then. ‘Can I rely on you to see to it, lass? To see I’m put where I want to be . . . ?’

‘Will, dun’t talk so, I . . .’

‘Promise me, Esther. I mean it.’ His tone was insistent – and serious.

For a long moment, Esther gazed into his eyes. She knew, beyond doubt now, just what her relationship to this man was, and yet even now he would not say the words she longed to hear.

She sighed. Even so, he was asking her to undertake something which was important to him. It was better than nothing, she supposed.

She nodded. ‘I promise . . .’ she said, biting back the name she so longed to call him but did not dare. It was strange, she thought, here he was almost proclaiming to the world his affection for her mother, and yet still he would not acknowledge his relationship to Connie’s daughter.

What if she, Esther, had been wrong all this time? What if, as her aunt had always implied, her mother had really been that cruel name they had called her and had not known which one of several men had fathered her daughter?