‘Perhaps she’s made her way round the church to the front. No matter. I think I should come and see her again though.’

‘Oh yes, I do wish you would, Doctor. She’s still not at all herself, you know. I am so afraid she might do something silly again, indeed’ – her tone lowered – ‘I have good reason to suspect it.’

‘Now that would be a very worrying development.’ His voice was grave, and I could just picture him rocking on his heels, his fingers interlocked behind his back, his chest puffed out with characteristic self-importance. ‘I had hoped after all this time we were beginning to see some signs of improvement. Look,’ he let out a long, exasperated sigh, ‘I’ll pop by and see her. Perhaps we can talk more then.’

I waited in my hiding place, suspicious they might be faking silence as a lure – I’d been caught out by that trick before, but I was more cautious now. Minutes passed. My toes began to ache from the penetrating cold. At last I opened my eyes.

Annie Burrows stood not more than a few feet in front of me. Her eyes were the most extraordinary shade of blue – violet almost, a peculiar, unnatural shade – set too close to the narrow bridge of her nose, giving the impression she was cross-eyed, though closer inspection revealed this was not the case. Unsettling, all the same.

‘They’ve gone.’

She paused, waiting to see her words register, before turning and walking away across the grass. Bewildered, I withdrew from the shadow of the mausoleum to watch the young maid disappear through the lychgate. A single magpie flew out from the branches of the yew and landed on the path before me, its sleek black plumage glinting in the weak morning light that was only now beginning to penetrate the cloud. He strutted on his spindly legs, his head tilted as he fixed me with his calculating eye.

‘One for sorrow,’ I murmured as I dropped down upon the bench succumbing to a wave of desperate misery that quite threatened to overwhelm me. ‘Oh, Gerald.’ His name escaped me as a mournful whisper. I sought comfort from a happy memory: a warm July day before the war, a picnic. I could recall the moment in clear detail: the burbling brook, a tartan blanket, bitter ginger ale – tangy relief to our parched throats – and the brush of Gerald’s arm against mine as we bathed in the sunshine. It had been a perfect afternoon. I could even hear our laughter, hear his voice. Every tiny facet of the day was crystalline, everything, that is, but Gerald’s face. That precious part of the picture proved frustratingly elusive. When I tried to focus on it, I found it clouded – blurred and vague. My heart ached.

What I had always feared was coming to pass: I was beginning to forget him.

Chapter Two