Lorna joins him at the window. ‘Oh, that’s Melissa and her nephew, Seth.’ She darts to the front door, opening it. ‘Hi, come in,’ she says. She ushers them into the living room and introduces them to Saffy and Tom.

Melissa is beaming. She hands an envelope to Lorna, then glances around the cottage, at the modern sofas and the wooden floors. Then her attention is back to Lorna. ‘After our chat I remembered I had these photos,’ she says.

‘I told my aunt to wait until tomorrow but she insisted,’ grins Seth, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

‘I thought you’d like to see them,’ adds Melissa. ‘It’s when Rose was bell-ringing with us all at the church. She used to love it.’

‘She was a bell-ringer?’ asks Saffy, raising an eyebrow in surprise. ‘She never mentioned that.’

Lorna wants to add that there were lots of things her mother never mentioned but thinks better of it. She flicks through them. A group of about six women, including a much younger Melissa, are grinning at the camera, each holding a length of rope in what looks like the inside of a church tower. It must have been taken in the late 1970s, judging by the haircuts and fashions. Lorna scans the women but can’t see her mum. ‘Is she in these?’ she asks, frowning.

Melissa peers over her shoulder. ‘Yes, there she is.’ She points to a woman with long wavy hair. The photo might be old but Lorna can see straight away it’s not her mother. ‘That’s not her. She looks vaguely familiar but . . .’

‘What do you mean?’ says Melissa, snatching the photos from Lorna’s hand. ‘Yes, that’s her, there. And in this one . . .’

‘Let’s see,’ says Saffy, walking over and taking the photo from Melissa. ‘Wait. That’s not Gran.’ She turns to Lorna, eyebrows raised. ‘That’s – that’s the other woman in Gran’s photos. That’s Daphne.’

Melissa laughs. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Daphne hadn’t moved in when these were taken. In 1978. That’s Rose. I should know what Rose looked like.’

A cold hand clutches Lorna’s heart. She dashes to the box that is still in the corner of the living room, the one they still haven’t finished sorting through. She retrieves the photos and shows them to Melissa, her hands shaking. ‘That other woman, in those photos . . .’ she says.

‘This one?’ Melissa says, pointing to the tall one with a dark elfin haircut and pale skin. Her mother.

‘Yes. Who – who is that?’

Saffy is by her side. ‘Mum, I don’t understand. You know who that is. It’s Gran.’

Lorna grabs her daughter’s hand and squeezes it. ‘Who is that?’ she asks Melissa again, stabbing the photo with her finger, her voice urgent, nausea rising.