The graveyard at Lympne Church was never more beautiful than when it was in the throes of spring. The last twenty-four hours had felt like the flick of a switch to Richard – the signs of a harsh and barren winter nearing its end had suddenly arrived. The hedgerow that chased the perimeter of the church grounds had looked like it was drawn from charcoal in the bleakness of winter but it was now littered with shoots. Colour was emerging, too, on the taller trees; their thick roots might have been some way down in the steep valley but the thickening branches were peeking above the low stone wall. Directly behind the headstone of Angela Maddox, a cherry blossom tree had also started to wake and would soon dazzle as a bright pink backdrop. The blossom only lasted a week – less if there was a strong wind – but when it did shed its colour it only served to sprinkle petals like the most beautiful confetti over his wife’s resting place. Last year the petals had started falling almost immediately after Angela had been laid to rest, like the gardens were welcoming her with colour – a ticker-tape parade for a returning hero. Angela was from Lympne originally, and one of her ancestors had even been the presiding vicar at this very church – that was how he had been able to bury her here. She had been a regular at their local church but Richard had taken real comfort from the fact that her long sleep would be among old friends and family.

There was no freezing mist today and the rain from the previous night had cleared to leave a sun that was bright enough for him to feel its warmth. He actually undid his jacket before he undid the flask.

‘Morning, my love!’ He felt bright and inhaled the fresh morning air as he poured out his first coffee. Movement dragged his eye. A sheep emerged from the bushes as a blur, another one erupting from behind it. They both skipped away, the second clumsy where its foot dragged in the vegetation. Richard laughed. ‘They’re out again, keeping you company, I see!’

Angela loved nature and he loved the idea that animals felt safe enough to roam here. He leaned back, his arm along the top of the bench to open his whole body to the sun. He even closed his eyes – his face drenched enough that he could see the glow against his eyelids. For the first time in a long time, Richard felt good, invigorated even. He could remember endless occasions where he had sat on this bench with no real sense of anything else, like he was just waiting to join his wife in the ground. But not today.