The station platform is empty. A vicious wind nips at my exposed face. The sky is throwing down hail and it sounds like uncooked rice being shaken up in a plastic bottle. Inside the warmth of the DLR train, I press cool hands to my cheeks, hoping to quell the churn of nausea.

At home, I add extra underwear and my toothbrush to the overnight bag that’s a permanent fixture in the boot of my car, and grab the shoebox of memorabilia, just in case.

When I left the village two decades ago in the back of Aunt Peg’s dented hatchback, watching until Saltbox Hill and the river had faded from view, I swore I would never go back to that place of darkness. Too full of memories. Too much history. Too many buried secrets.

But I was lying to myself. Just like I’ve lied about everything else.

You want me to call you Hero? What a wonderful idea – our very own secret code! And Beatrice and Hero were cousins. Wouldn’t it be strange if we were related? I mean, that’s partly what prompted me to send you a message in the first place. Looking at your picture was like staring into a mirror of the past.

Isn’t it a coincidence that neither of us has much family? I’m so sorry to hear about the tragic losses you have experienced. I have also experienced loss in the most devastating of circumstances. It seems we have a lot in common.

8

Catherine folded the sheet into an untidy rectangle, struck by the smell of fabric conditioner, of home. She shook it out again and refolded it until the edges formed a knife-sharp line. Old habits died hard. Fold once, twice and then again, and smooth out the cotton. The comfort of routine. It had sustained her during the darkest days.

She placed the clean laundry in a drawer. Some women found cooking, cleaning, washing and ironing – the four pillars of domestic life – too prosaic for their tastes. Several mothers from the school paid other women to change beds and press shirts while they drank coffee and spent their mornings at the gym. But Catherine embraced the mundanity. She let herself fall into it. She had spent too much time dreaming of being ordinary to ever become bored.

Fresh snow had fallen in their Essex village overnight. The school remained closed and the trains into London were suspended until further notice. Edward had taken himself off to the study to work. The door was closed and every now and then, when she walked past, she heard him murmuring into the telephone.

It struck her that she had no idea how he spent his days, or with whom.