Perhaps it’s doing something in total silence that clears my mind. A familiar action: clearing cups and plates, carrying them into the house’s sparse, neat kitchen, no one saying anything at all. I find a cloth and wipe down the picnic table while Susan boils the kettle. I put fresh cups on a tray, then I load the dishwasher. It makes me feel better.

On the kitchen wall is a photograph of a handsome man with shiny black hair like Susan’s. Mola sees me looking.

‘My son,’ she says.

‘Susan’s dad?’ She nods and I follow her back outside. She makes herself comfortable with a cushion on the wooden planks of the picnic-table bench. I can’t sit.

‘He is in prison,’ says Mola, as matter-of-factly as if she had simply said, ‘He’s gone to Sainsbury’s.’

‘Yes. Susan mentioned, erm …’ I don’t know what to say. What do you say in situations like that?

At that moment, Susan arrives, carrying a tray of tea things. Mola looks at the tray and makes an approving noise in her throat.

‘I don’t think you would like po cha, Malky,’ says Susan, ‘so I’ve brought you regular tea.’ She sees me looking a bit embarrassed. ‘Po cha is Tibetan tea.’

‘The best tea! Everyone loves it,’ interjects Mola. ‘It is made with tea leaves and …’

I can already identify the smell. ‘Yak’s butter?’

Mola grins. ‘Clever boy!’

‘But it takes a bit of getting used to,’ says Susan.

‘Nonsense! I drink it when I was a little girl!’

‘Tibetan tea,’ Susan says, ‘is made by boiling the leaves, then adding butter and salt. It’s … unusual. I love it!’

Mola beams. ‘See? You are good girl, Susan!’ She takes a sip of her butter tea. ‘Malcolm will not drink that goat’s wee.’ She grasps the cup that Susan had poured for me and throws the contents on the grass behind her, and says, ‘Malcolm? Dream-boy? You all right?’ She hands me her cup and says, ‘Drink it. It is good.’

Hesitantly, I raise the little cup to my mouth and pause. Something has washed over me, like a cloud obscuring the sun.

I stare at my teacup, inhaling the strange odour, and blinking.

‘Am … Am …’ I am finding it hard to talk. I stare at Susan. ‘Susan … am I dreaming?’ Right now?’

Chapter 56

‘Malky! What do you ask that for? No. No, you are definitely not dreaming!’ Susan sounds alarmed.

As quickly as it started, the feeling wears off.

‘I’m sorry … I just had a sort of … flashback.’ I shake my head, vigorously. To be certain, I quickly look at the clock on my phone. Everything is fine. ‘Float,’ I say to myself. I can’t float. I sigh with relief.

It was as though something had flicked a switch in my head. A sound? A sight?

No. The smell of the tea!