‘Do you mind if I go out for a little walk before the service, Mum? I know Ruby and Jarvis are coming through in a bit and we’ll all go to the church together like we’ve planned, but I need a bit of fresh air. I’ll wait right here until they arrive. You won’t be on your own.’

‘Avoiding your sister?’ Heather asked wearily.

‘Maybe, but mostly I don’t want to make a show of myself in front of everyone and I know if I can take a minute to order my thoughts, I can walk in and do Dad proud.’ Her voice caught.

‘Your dad was proud, always. So very proud of both of you.’

Merrin reached across and took her mum’s hand inside her own. ‘Would you like me to do your hair?’ She avoided looking at the back of Heather’s head, which needed a decent brush through it.

‘My hair?’ Her mum stared at her as if her words were in a foreign tongue.

‘Just so you look nice for the funeral? I could pop the curling tongs on?’

Heather let her head fall forward and reached for the toilet tissue in front of her. ‘I only ever bothered about looking nice for Ben, only ever cared what he thought. I can’t be bothered with anything, Merrin, not anything. Not if he isn’t here! What’s the point?’ Her sob was loud and unrestrained.

‘You won’t always feel that way, Mum. I promise.’ She hoped this was the truth, as much for her mum’s sake as her own. Heather made her arms into a cradle and placed her head on them, again lost to the wearying pull of grief and ignoring her daughter’s words of comfort.

Merrin had for the longest time doubted the validity of true love, knowing it could change and be fleeting, proving there was nothing ‘true’ about it. But to see her mother so broken, so adrift without her Ben by her side . . . it was proof that a deep, true love existed, and to lose it was like losing part of yourself. Her heart ached for her mother, but at the same time swelled with joy that she and Ben had been lucky enough to know such a thing.

The service was at eleven thirty in the morning and by the time Merrin made it up the hill in the black dress and shoes that Miguel had so kindly and thoughtfully packed for her, a borrowed scarf and her coat, the blue sky had taken on a grey bruise. It was the colour only the Cornish coast knew: a special dull, mink grey that filled the big sky, conveying not only the damp chill in the air, but also the misery.