For a full minute neither of them speaks. They simply sit there, the huge unspoken meaning behind his words squashed between them. Tilda wants to jump out of the car, run back to the house, and shut herself inside. She doesn’t want to go anywhere in any car. She doesn’t want to have to try to explain the inexplicable to this … man. She doesn’t want to have to try to explain it to herself.

But if I run now, if I hide now, if I give up now, then what?

She knows things have to change. She knows she has to do something. She closes her eyes, forcing herself to find a kernel of courage.

I do want this bloody car to start. I do!

She steadies her breathing, waiting for the sense that something has changed. And it comes. A subtle shift in how she feels. In how she … is. She opens her eyes and stares out through the windscreen, not trusting herself to meet Dylan’s eyes.

‘Try it again,’ she says.

Slowly, he takes hold of the key and turns it. And the engine bursts into life, belching exhaust fumes, juddering the ancient frame of the vehicle, setting up a cacophony of squeaks and rattles, but it works. And it goes on working. Only now does Tilda dare look at Dylan. He smiles at her, not his usual chipper grin, but a softer, reassuring sort of smile.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Bricks, then.’

‘Bricks,’ she agrees.

Clearly sensitive to her nervousness, Dylan drives slowly and steadily, so that Tilda finds she is actually able to enjoy looking at the beautiful countryside they pass through. She has spent so many weeks at the cottage that discovering what lies beyond the horizon is an exciting event. The road climbs through the high rocky pass in the village of Bwlch and then dips down to follow the River Usk on to the Brecon Beacons, with their sharp, dark peaks and steep escarpments dotted with tough Welsh mountain sheep. The realization that she is able to even notice the scenery, instead of being in her more common, white-knuckled state, is an immense relief to Tilda. Dylan is an excellent local guide, keeping up a light chatter, telling her about points of interest along the route. By the time they reach the small market town of Brecon, Tilda is smiling properly for the first time in an age.

The first time since Mat died? Can it be? Even now, in a car?