Gran shakes her head, looking distressed. ‘No, no, no, not buried her. No. But Jean hit her over the head. She hit her over the head and she died.’

‘And this happened in 1980 when you were living in the cottage?’ says Mum, leaning forwards.

‘I . . . I don’t know . . .’ Gran starts wringing her hands, the tissue now disintegrated in her lap. ‘I can’t remember when it happened. I . . . It’s all so foggy.’ Her face creases, and then she looks at me. ‘Here, who’s that?’ she says suddenly, out of the blue, as though the conversation never took place. She’s pointing at Mum.

‘It’s Lorna. Your daughter,’ I say, my heart in my feet.

‘Oh, yes . . . yes . . .’ She turns away from us to look out of the rain-spattered window.

I glance at Mum. ‘I think we’ve lost her.’

31

Rose

February 1980

WE SPENT A GLORIOUS FEW DAYS SNOWED INTO THE COTTAGE. I could have lived that way for ever, just the three of us, cut off from the world. We watched black-and-white films on the telly and ate Daphne’s homemade soup and I made a cake especially for you. It was like having a second Christmas. But on the fourth day I was dismayed to see that the roads were clearer, just sludge left behind, banked by mounds of snow, tinged yellow. I took you to playschool, the pavements slippery under our wellies, the snow compacted into ice.

When I got back inside the cottage Daphne was putting on her thin patchwork coat, her long hair tied back in a ponytail.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked in surprise.

‘Work. I can’t stay off for ever,’ she said, pressing her crocheted hat firmly over her head. ‘As much as I might want to. I don’t want Joel to sack me.’

I was surprised he hadn’t already, after she’d turned down his advances. I was still trying to reconcile the Joel I thought I knew to the Joel Daphne talked about. But then, as I’d come to realize, I had always been so naive in the past about men. I could no longer trust my own judgement.

I did wonder if Joel was scared of what Daphne might do if he dared sack her: she could be feisty and determined when she wanted to be. I’d seen the way she’d chastised the bin men after they’d left one of our rubbish bags behind, and shouted at one of the village youths for kicking a pigeon.

It felt strange and empty in the house without her. And I found myself counting down the hours until she returned, distracting myself by loading the washing machine, mopping the kitchen floor, then ambling back to the village square to pick you up from playschool. The corner shop was open but Melissa’s café was still closed.