The last time he had felt close to her was a few weeks after she had left the clinic. He had done as she requested and had the rowan tree dragged out on to the fen, where he had burnt what he could of it. The great pyre had lit up the sky for days, and by the time Kate returned, some of the charred trunk remained. He had taken to using the spot for burning garden rubbish that was too big for the incinerator. On that particular day, he had taken out a dead conifer and along with some other garden waste, had built quite a substantial bonfire.

She had stood with him, her arm through his, and they had watched the fire consume the dead fir tree branch by branch. After a while she had gone indoors and to his surprise, returned carrying the dark paintings, which she had committed to the flames.

Then, from under her jacket, she had produced the doll and with a kiss, consigned that too to the pyre.

He had held her tightly, told her that he was proud of her, and kissed her with all his old passion. They had gone up to their room and, tenderly, made love.

The following day her feelings seemed to have cooled along with the ashes, and from that moment on, she began to drift away.

While the news came from Canada that Sophie was improving and becoming stronger, Kate seemed to wane. Every day she became a little more transparent, less substantial.

He gazed at the figure silhouetted against the horizon. He could just make out her red windcheater. She had left at breakfast time, and it was now just after eleven o’clock. He had sat on the bench, daydreaming, unable to force himself to move. He was tired of trying to work out what to do about his wife. He couldn’t bear to think of life without her, but life with her was becoming unbearable too. He really should ring Matt, or maybe Sam, but he couldn’t muster the energy to even make a call.

He stood up and stretched. He had heard the postman earlier but hadn’t bothered to check the mail. It would only be bills. No one ever wrote to them these days. At least Philip phoned regularly. Those calls were the only bright point in Will’s life. Sophie was back at school. She was still receiving therapy, but she was much recovered. There was even talk about her going off to camp again. Philip and Annette had trudged through the mountain of required paperwork and were well on the way to becoming Sophie’s legal parents.

He went to check the post. Among the bills he found a letter, the address written in a clear, childish hand. The stamps told him it came from Canada.