Lionel had recently found her running her fingers over the spines of the leather-bound books crammed on to the oak shelves of the library.

‘I think it’s a shame if they’re not opened and appreciated. Like having an instrument that’s never played or a vintage car that’s never driven – quite pointless if these things are reduced to ornaments. So please’ – he had gestured around the room – ‘help yourself.’

‘Thank you, but I’m not much of a reader.’

‘Ah, that’s the beauty of reading, it’s never too late to start!’

She waited for him to leave before shyly reaching for a faded red spine that called to her. Taking the delicate book into her hands, she marvelled at its gold inlay title and the marbled pattern on the edge of the pages.

‘The Passionate Pilgrim – A Collection of Poetry by William Shakespeare,’ she read aloud. ‘William Shakespeare. Might give the old dead bloke a go.’ She swallowed the memory of her dad saying something similar, unable to stand the way she missed him, feeling it in her throat like a physical thing and longing for one of his hugs.

It had been only a week after her almost wedding when, quite by accident, Merrin had ended up in this fancy resort in a market town on the edge of Bristol. Having driven along the M5 in her battered, beloved Vera Wilma Brown with her heart and spirit in tatters, eyes swollen from sobbing and a pain in her chest, longing for the home she had only just turned away from, she saw a sign for Thornbury. Her little car, in need of fuel, slowed and she too had a fancy for a restorative cup of tea and so followed the signs to this place she had never heard of. Knowing it was vital she got back on her feet as quickly as possible, her intention was that after a quick rest stop, she would carry on to the bright lights of Bristol, find a job – any job – and go from there. She would show Digby Mortimer, she would show them all that she was not destroyed by the event that had rocked her world, but only thrown a little off course.