‘You’re getting into difficult territory there,’ I said, and was pleased to see her smile.

‘Howay then,’ said John, and some Geordie crept into his accent. ‘I’m off to work. Try not to get run over by any wagons while I’m gone, eh love?’

She gave him a little flutter of a smile, like a butterfly beating its wings. He kissed her on the head as he pulled on his cap. He paused for a moment, uncertain whether he should do the same to me.

‘Look after her, eh?’

‘I will,’ I said.

He looked at me for a moment too long, then his eyes flicked to his wife and back to me. ‘I wasn’t talking to you.’

CORDELIA

Flick and I didn’t talk much as we walked. I could hear her breathing harder than she needed to and I’m sure she could hear the little waver in my voice as I said hello to a man in green fishing waders and a waterproof coat who was walking his Labrador on the opposite side of the road.

‘Know him?’ asked Flick, as he returned my greeting with a grunt.

‘Just his face. Saw him in post office. Why?’

‘Making conversation.’

‘Oh.’

There weren’t many cars on the road and the gutters were still gurgling with muddy puddles and mulched leaves. I felt like I could hear Flick’s mind making noises like a waterlogged motorcycle engine. I couldn’t think of very much to say.

‘Meg Merrilies’ cottage,’ said Flick, half to herself, as we followed the path into the village. She nodded at a little house on the bridge. ‘You read Walter Scott?’

I was a bit taken aback by the question. ‘What? Well, some, yes.’

‘Don’t know any myself,’ she said. ‘But there’s one book of his – Guy Mannering, it’s called. Lots of this area in it, though different names and such. There’s a lass in it called Meg Merrilies. Bad old sort and landlady of the alehouse. She were based on a local lass. A real lass. Reiver, like I told you the other day.’

I thought back to our brief conversations. The day of our meeting felt like an age ago. Where had I been? A grave. Laying there, thinking of my son and wanting the world to leave me alone or swallow me down.

‘You were in her grave,’ said Flick, flatly. ‘Hundred years old and they probably put her in there kicking and screaming. There’s some say that that was her house yonder but others reckon she were actually from Mumps Hall, up the road. Who’s to say, ehh? Oh, there it is. That’s the one. You can see the sparks.’