Upper Denton. That was the name of the village. A mile south of Gilsland. A place at the edge of things. It was shaped like a crucifix – the cross section formed by a straight grey road that ran parallel to the train tracks. Three houses at the top of the village and a couple more sloping away down the hill. Ragged outbuildings and crumbling barns. Then the church. Beyond that lay the river and the trees and endless miles of nothing at all.

‘Oh Jesus, Joseph and Mary, I thought you were a ghost!’

I didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. I’d heard her approaching. Lain still as a housebrick and hoped she would pass right on by.

‘Are you well? Oh my goodness, I’m shaking!’

She was one of them. A local girl. One of the tribe. A girl from the borderlands, the place between pages; tucked into the margins between two northern counties and a stone’s throw from the Scottish border. A Gilsland girl. As much a part of the landscape as the cow shit and tumbledown stone walls.

She’d jumped like a startled cat when she saw me. Literally jumped. Both feet off the floor and one hand rising to her face. The other held a small bouquet of carnations, which she was crushing against her damp jacket like a child with an ice cream.

‘I’m so sorry …’ she began.

I stopped her with a shake of my head. I couldn’t abide feebleness. Already I felt I knew what she was. Could imagine her running a neat little home, peeling potatoes, picking elderberries, scrubbing medicated shampoo into some pale-skinned little ruffian’s hair. I drank her in a little more. She was older than me. Mid-thirties, though with the fashions in that place it was never easy to be sure. Women started dressing like their grandparents as soon as they pushed out a child.

‘You gave me quite a start,’ she said, all fussy. Her accent was local, a low, self-conscious marbling of Geordie and Scot. ‘Have you fallen? Can you hear me? Are you not well? I’m Mrs … well, I’m Felicity, really …’

I probably shrugged. I certainly didn’t have the energy to smile. Just looked at her, over the top of my book, and wondered if she was going to say any more. I didn’t want company. Hadn’t wanted company in a long while. Didn’t even know if my sore throat and cracked lips would allow for conversation.

‘It’ll be Mrs Hemlock, am I right?’