Passing the urn and then the cedarwood chest from hand to hand, we pour out the ashes. We are careful to let them fall in small heaps next to each other without mixing, as Yvette specified, but a portion of finer ash drifts like smoke from each deposition and the two small clouds mingle in the air before settling. Tom and Célia pick some primroses and scatter them over the ashes. Then, as if by common consent, they start to walk away down the lane, leaving me to say my words alone.

The breeze rises. The primroses flutter into the light as the shadows move; into the light and out of it again. Yvette and Catherine can hear me. No one else.

—

Célia gives us letters—one from Peter to me, and two from her sons to Tom. We hand her ours in return, and all embrace once more. Célia’s tears return in torrents. “I plan to cry all the way to Paris. Bloody Yvette. I still miss her so much. Goodbye, darlings.” She goes straight to her taxi, which has been waiting all this time. She won’t look back.

Tom whistles softly as the taxi departs. “She came from Bristol airport in that cab. Jeez. They must have some dough.”

—

The university spring holiday has begun and Tom is staying with me for a few days at Corey’s Farm. We make our way, at a markedly increased pace, back to Upton. Driving fast on busy main roads has a powerfully restorative effect on me. The sun is setting as we reach Waltham and the supermarket is closed, so we stop for fish and chips. We park in the square and the car fills with the comforting smell of vinegar and hot newspaper as we devour our food.

“I feel surprisingly okay now,” says Tom, through a mouthful of crispy cod. “You know, considering.”

I’ve barely made a dent in my mountainous helping. “Do you want some of my chips, Tom?”

“Go on, then.”

The windows are misting up. I’m seized by my usual urge to swipe a chammy leather back and forth until the glass is clear again. But the car is stationary, I tell myself, and we’re parked safely in a small town in the south of England, in peacetime. There is nothing to fear from any quarter.

—

That night I sleep dreamlessly and wake late. Probably for the first time in our lives, Tom is up before me. I find him at the kitchen table writing a shopping list. “If we go soon,” he says, “we’ll miss the crowds.”

I stare at him. “Crowds? In Waltham?”

“At the health food shop. They’ve got fresh yeast today.”

“How on earth do you know?”