‘I keep meaning to pop into St Michael’s there on the hill.’ He pointed over her head. ‘It looks lovely, but I haven’t been inside.’

‘It is . . . Last time I went in was for my dad’s funeral. He died.’ She didn’t know why she felt the need to tell the stranger, but did so anyway.

‘It’s probably best.’

‘What is?’

‘That he’d died, if you had a funeral for him.’ He drew breath. ‘Sorry, that’s my idea of humour, which I can see by your expression is entirely the wrong thing to do at the moment. I do that when I get nervous, and death makes me nervous.’

‘I think it makes everyone nervous.’ She stared at the stranger, his manner odd.

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ He let the sentiment settle.

‘Thank you. It was a little while ago now, but still feels like yesterday in some ways.’

‘Yep, I know that feeling. It gets you here.’ He thumped his chest, where his heart lurked. ‘It’s awful, isn’t it, when your dad dies? I lost mine five years ago and it’s . . . awful. Yes, that’s the best word.’

Merrin felt the spring of tears.

‘Oh no, you look like you might cry! That’s really bad! Worse than my joke.’ He took a step towards her and stared, as if figuring what to do or say that might help. He had a kind face, crinkly eyes and a nice mouth. His hair was quite long.

‘No, it’s not; I mean, it is bad, but it’s not you. I can usually control it. But tonight has been quite emotional and sometimes any mention of him or any thought of him and it’s like flicking a switch, and that’s terrible because when I saw him in real life, I never felt like crying, just smiling.’

‘Well, the good news is that it stops. I can promise you that.’ He spoke with authority.

‘Which bit?’

‘The sudden crying. Although I still cry – not all the time, but if I see someone in a coat similar to his, because I think it might actually be him and the disappointment is overwhelming. And I cry if I hear his voice on a message or a video. I cry when my mum or my brother cries about him; it sets off a sort of chain reaction.’

‘You still seem to cry a lot.’ She sniffed. ‘After five years.’

He looked up towards the darkened night sky. ‘Not really, maybe twice a month, and I think that’s okay. But that switch thing you were talking about, that resets.’

‘So it’ll keep getting easier?’ she asked with a note of hope that was too much to be putting in the direction of a stranger.

‘Easier?’ He put his hands in his pockets and looked out to sea. ‘Not easier, no; it gets different.’

‘Different?’