Jack is tugging out a freshly hacked bramble when they hear the clip-clop of high-stepping horses. He retreats further onto the verge as they appear, tossing their heads, their plumes shivering on the wind. Gwen’s billhook hangs impotently by her side as she watches the hearse roll by – her son’s father taking his final leave.

She pays scant attention to the first limousine as it inches past – until, that is, she sees its passenger. Lady Helen’s face is turned to the window, as if she has no wish to be sitting beside her dead husband’s grieving mother. Her drawn expression expands with surprise as she sees Gwen and for the briefest moment, their eyes meet. A sly curve appears upon her lips, as her black-gloved fingers stray to her cheek which benefits from a discreet covering of make-up. She lifts a single brow and dips her chin as the car slides past. Gwen watches her go, her heart beating faster, fuelled by the suspicion that Helen Allingham has just delivered a most terrible admission.

Gwen suggests they all visit Ted’s grave that evening. They do not encounter a single soul as they make their way through the village and by the time they cross under the covered lychgate into the churchyard the sun is sinking low on the horizon.

They pay no attention to the raised stone mausoleum, freshly covered with a multitude of wreaths in colours that jar with the fading season. Gwen grips Tom’s hand a little tighter as they pass by. She is reassured by the light touch of Jack’s fingers on the small of her back.

Ted’s grave is located to the side of the church. The headstone is not new; it already bears the names of his wife and son, their chiselled edges weathered, while Ted’s is starkly defined. The flowers from the simple funeral service have begun to shed their petals, so Gwen and Muriel clear them away, carrying them in silence to the compost heap under the yew tree, while Jack and Tom lay a bunch of late-flowering phlox picked from the garden in their place. Tom leans against Jack’s leg, his little face solemn. Gwen smooths his blond hair as she returns and rests her hand on his shoulder. She looks again at the layered names on the gravestone and takes comfort from her conviction that the family has been reunited in death.

By the time they walk Muriel home, the night sky has revealed itself. A splinter of moon pierces the thin cloud and rests in a circle of its own light, like a giant cat’s eye spying upon them. They watch Muriel safely in, then carry on through the village, taking advantage of the streetlights, until at last it lies behind them and they are in the lane, dimly lit.