A painful memory punches through her consciousness: her father seated in a deckchair on the back porch of the vicarage, newspaper in hand, teacup close by, enjoying the spring sunshine. She sits down on the step beside him and they rest there for several minutes: a rare moment of calm and quiet time together, just the two of them. And then there’s a shout, and Jimmy is running towards them across the lawn with tears streaming down his face, waving a bunch of wilted bluebells.

‘What’s up, Jim?’ Pa asks.

‘For . . . you . . . they . . .’ His speech was never clear at the best of the times, but he found the word at last. ‘Dead,’ he shouts, tossing them violently to the ground before running into the house. They listen to his clumsy footsteps clomping through the hallway and up the stairs. Neither of them moves.

‘Had I better go after him?’

‘He’ll be all right,’ Molly murmurs, reluctant to break the spell.

‘He picked them for me – I’d better go.’ Pa heaves himself up from the deckchair. The moment is lost. How she’d hated her brother in that moment, ruining everything, as usual.

‘Nearly there,’ Bella says, slowing the car. ‘Here’s the turning.’

‘How did you know?’ Molly says, as they start down the narrow lane.

‘I’ve been here before, Mum.’

‘You’ve been here? Without me?’

‘I wanted to see where you lived with Grandpa.’

‘I didn’t know you knew so much about it.’

‘I don’t, Mum. But remember that photo? The one they took when you first arrived?’ Molly remembers it well: Miss Calver, editor of the Village News, produced a camera and made them stand outside the church.

‘But I never knew about the lake,’ Bella says.

‘The Mere.’

‘Mere, then. So where is it?’

‘Past the church, down the hill.’

The church tower is visible before any other building, flintwork gleaming in the sunshine, and the sight of it makes Molly’s heart contract. An unwelcome vision: her father high above them, standing precariously on the parapet, arms outstretched, shouting, ‘Take me, God, I’m coming.’

She takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm her thoughts.

As they approach the church gate, the lane is almost blocked with cars parked carelessly on either side. ‘Whatever’s going on?’ Bella asks, manoeuvring past.

‘Sunday-morning service. Looks like there’s still a healthy congregation. Let’s go on down to the lake. We can come back afterwards.’

She is expecting to see the vicarage at any moment, but her view is obscured by a new wall of bright-red brick. Bella stops by gateposts topped with a pair of badly modelled concrete lions, comic-book renderings of those noble creatures. A slate sign with sharply laser-carved lettering reads: VICARAGE CLOSE.