She gave him a kiss. ‘The train leaves at 8.10. A lift to the station would be lovely.’ The kiss became a quick hug and, as she broke away and headed upstairs, he stirred his tea gloomily and munched the biscuit.

The taxi took her through Honiton’s picture-book high street, lined with olde-worlde antique shops and whole-food cafés, into the beginnings of a long, wide valley. It was enfolded by gently rising, luxuriantly green fields, divided by orderly hedgerows and dotted with copses of beech and birch. A comforting landscape, the hills of Devon not too intimidating, the horizon open without being endless, the ridges tapering harmoniously into a serene blue sky. On this bright day, it was an arm of England extending an affectionate hug. A place where a fractured mind might come to heal.

A tiny doubt seized her. Could she be heading into some kind of trap? Surely not – Mrs Green’s voice and accent matched this gentle patch of conformity. Yet how had she known… the taxi, slowing down to go through a small gate, arrested the thought.

Sara stepped out onto a short gravel driveway leading to a perfectly white bungalow, its flawless paintwork reflecting the sun. She walked up the drive, stopping at a window to adjust her blue scarf to reveal just the front fold of her hair and rang the doorbell. Though its ding-dong was loud and clear, there was no answer. She counted the seconds, then, more as a nervous tic, took her phone from her handbag and checked her diary. There was no false memory of place, date or time. She rang the bell again. A flurry of footsteps on gravel followed immediately.

A shortish figure, grey hair, spectacles hanging over a check shirt, appeared breathlessly from around the side of the house. ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve kept you waiting.’

Sara recognised the voice from the phone call. ‘Not at all. Mrs Green?’

‘Yes.’ She raised the glasses and gave her a quick look up and down. ‘And you’re Sara, of course.’ She did not offer a hand to shake, appearing in too much of a hurry to retrace her steps. ‘I’ve been trying to get Marion to sit outside. She probably won’t.’

Sara’s expression spelt a silent question.

‘Agoraphobia. At least that’s what the diagnosis became. Though it might have been given several names as it’s so unpredictable. One consultant said she was suffering post-traumatic stress disorder. It was part of the reason to find this place for her – the hope that if any surrounding wouldn’t frighten her, this might be it. No noise or cars, no endless sea or expanses, but not too enclosed either.’

‘I didn’t know…’ began Sara.