The clear blue skies are deceiving: the breeze has a chill to it. She’s careful to keep to the middle of the road as she navigates her way down the hill, so as not to be dragged into any bushes. Every time a twig snaps behind her the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, but it’s only a dog-walker, or a couple on a morning stroll. She’s letting her imagination run away with her. She can’t do that. She has to be strong, for her daughter. At the bottom of the hill she passes the Stag and Pheasant. A young couple are sitting at one of the bistro tables outside drinking frothy coffees and they nod to her as she passes. They look all loved up, like they’ve come away for the weekend, and she thinks of Alberto. She loves the idea of him more than she actually loves him. She finds that she doesn’t care that he’s probably moving his stuff out of the apartment right now.

As she walks through the square she notices the church: it stands opposite the market cross and behind a tall iron gate that’s ajar. It’s a beautiful old one, with a spire, stained-glass windows and a small cemetery with elaborate old tombstones at the front. She hovers by the railings, looking in. She feels the sudden thud of familiarity. A memory surfacing. Of walking with her mum. And she’s upset. There are tears on her cheeks. The memory fades, like an apparition, and Lorna stands at the gates for a while, trying to summon it back. But there’s nothing, only a heavy feeling that settles inside her, a deep sadness. Had they been at a funeral? Had somebody they knew died? Lorna fights back tears while telling herself she’s being ridiculous. It’s just a feeling – she has no idea why she feels so grief-stricken all of a sudden.

She takes a deep breath and moves to the little café across the square where she orders a latte, pleased to see that Seth is serving. She tries to quell the melancholy that’s descended over her, instead asking him anodyne questions to take her mind off it. An older woman is at the counter with him today. She must be eighty at least, with a plump face, three chins and rosy cheeks. She’s stocky and sprightly despite the walking stick she’s leaning on while watching Seth. She is wearing little gold spectacles and her thick grey hair is gathered up in a clip. She smiles a greeting at Lorna.

‘I’m Melissa, Seth’s great-aunt,’ she says. ‘I used to own this place forty years ago. It hasn’t changed much over the years.’