‘It’s funny, isn’t it? Having a new name. I still get mine wrong and I’ve been married thirteen years.’

‘And your husband?’

‘John. Works in Carlisle for the corporation. Two children. James and Brian. Brian’s a little so-and-so. Could charm the skin off an apple. You’ve probably seen him in your garden. He knows you’ve got goosegog bushes and he’s the sort to help himself.’

‘Goosegogs?’

‘Gooseberries. Mrs Winslow’s father planted them years back. They still yield?’

I looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language. She started talking quickly then, as if to spare me the embarrassment of not knowing.

‘Grand old place, the Zealand Farm. Went there when I was little. Day out with the school, I think. Mrs Winslow played the piano for us. She was already on her own by then. Grand old woman. Strong as an ox. Worked until she couldn’t stand and then took to her bed and gave orders the rest of her days. Shame her son couldn’t take it on but I’m sure your husband’s going to do right by it. Must get lonely up there though. Cold, too. A bugger to heat, I’m guessing …’

I let her talk. Stefan had been dead seven months. I don’t think I’d exchanged more than a handful of words with another soul in that time. I wrote letters to family but couldn’t bring myself to read their replies. I gorged myself on food and drink or starved myself as my mood dictated. My face had begun to look unhealthy, like meat left out in warm weather. When I did take the trouble to brush my hair I would find whole clumps of it wrapped around the brush. If I dressed myself in more than a blanket it was in Cranham’s discarded clothes – big, patterned shirts with extravagant cuffs and collars; rugby shorts so big I could fit my whole body through one leg-hole. I floated around the house like a leaf on the breeze, wafting into empty rooms and nudging against the great thick walls and ancient bannisters; knocking pictures askew with careless movements, hugging myself in the dark behind thick, dusty curtains; cuddling my knees in front of a dead fire.

It took me an effort of colossal will to emerge into fresh air. Took small walks to the pretty places Stefan and I had enjoyed. Dragged myself down muddy tracks and over damp wooden stiles to look upon waterfalls and deep pools of whisky-coloured water; breathlessly clawing my way up steep riverbanks to stare at landscapes that had made my baby smile; mosaics of so many different greens and browns; the houses and farms arranged as if a giant hand had scattered them across the landscape.