‘That’s not it at all,’ Sandra replies, pouring more tea from the pot. ‘I saw you last night. You have a connection. Something very natural. You understand him, and with Robin, that’s hard.’

‘We’ve been through a lot together in the past year,’ Freya says, and Sandra nods.

‘It’s nice he has someone looking out for him. I’ve worried about that boy since Georgia died. You know we got in touch after the funeral?’ Freya shakes her head. She’d wondered where Josie and Finn and Sandra had been when Robin had needed them the most. ‘We even drove up to see him, Josie and I. But he was having none of it. Said he was fine, even though we knew he wasn’t. Looking back, I wish we’d done more,’ she says, pensively. She takes a sip of her tea. ‘Robin’s always been the same: so busy saving everyone he forgets about himself.’

‘What do you mean?’

Sandra laughs. ‘That boy’s biggest strength is his weakness. He did it with Finn when they were kids, and he’s doing it again now. His protector. Robin sees someone in trouble, and he has to rush to their aid.’ She reaches for another biscuit then holds the packet out to Freya, who takes one. ‘A shrink would probably say it comes from his mum dying so young. That he couldn’t save her, so he has to try with everyone else.’ She shrugs. ‘But what do I know about that? My only worry is what happens when he fails.’

She smiles at Freya warmly. ‘It’s a big relief that he’s doing so well now. Being around you must be good for him. Now,’ she adds before Freya can interject, ‘another cuppa?’

After three cups of tea, half a packet of biscuits and a trip to the toilet, Freya eventually pulls herself away from Sandra’s cosy kitchen. She’s wonderful company, warm and funny, and Freya considers Robin lucky to have grown up around such a woman. Lucky to have had a childhood like this, she thinks, walking out into the village.

She takes a turn up School Road, past a large white corrugated-iron community centre, down past a Scout hut and over a railway bridge. She keeps walking, sun on her face, a spring in her step, until she finds herself outside an old church. She stops, looking at the graves. Some are old; large stone monoliths. Others are new, small, shined granite plaques, marking where ashes must be buried. And sat on a wooden bench is Robin.

His head is bowed, his back hunched, and with a start she realises this must be where his mother is laid to rest. She hesitates. It feels wrong to disturb him, but then her phone beeps in her bag and he turns.

He smiles when he sees her and she lifts her hand in a half-wave, then walks over.