We found Four Acres Lane with help from a local dog-walker, and pulled up outside Fox’s Cottage, a modest white-rendered building with a thatched roof. Outside, scarlet roses tumbled around an iron arch at the start of the garden path, and delicately coloured blooms fought for space in neatly tended beds. A small hatchback sat in the drive.

‘She’s gone down in the world,’ said Lily, peering out.

‘It’s pretty.’

‘It’s a shoebox.’

I sat, listening to the engine tick down. ‘Listen, Lily. Before we go in. Just don’t expect too much,’ I said. ‘Mrs Traynor’s sort of formal. She takes refuge in manners. She’ll probably speak to you like she’s a teacher. I mean, I don’t think she’ll hug you, like Mr Traynor did.’

‘My grandfather is a hypocrite.’ Lily sniffed. ‘He makes out like you’re the greatest thing ever, but really he’s just pussy-whipped.’

‘And please don’t use the term “pussy-whipped”.’

‘There’s no point pretending to be someone I’m not,’ Lily said sulkily.

We sat there for a while. I realized that neither of us wanted to be the one to walk up to the door. ‘Shall I try to call her one more time?’ I said, holding up my phone. I’d tried twice that morning but it had gone straight to voicemail.

‘Don’t tell her straight away,’ she said suddenly. ‘Who I am, I mean. I just … I just want to see who she is. Before we tell her.’

‘Sure,’ I said, softening. And before I could say anything else, Lily was out of the car and striding up towards the front gate, her hands bunched into fists, like a boxer about to enter a ring.

Mrs Traynor had gone grey. Her hair, which had been tinted dark brown, was now white and short, making her look much older than she actually was, or like someone recently recovered from a serious illness. She was probably a stone lighter than when I had last seen her, and there were liver-coloured hollows under her eyes. She looked at Lily with a confusion that told me she didn’t expect any visitors, at any time. And then she saw me, and her eyes widened. ‘Louisa?’

‘Hello, Mrs Traynor.’ I stepped forward and held out a hand. ‘We were in the area. I don’t know if you got my letter. I just thought I’d stop by and say hello …’

My voice – false and unnaturally cheery – tailed away. The last time she had seen me was when I helped clear her dead son’s room; the time before that at his last breath. I watched her relive both those facts now. ‘We were just admiring your garden.’

‘David Austin roses,’ said Lily.

Mrs Traynor looked at her as if noticing her for the first time. Her smile was slight and wavering. ‘Yes. Yes, they are. How clever of you. It’s – I’m very sorry. I don’t have many visitors. What did you say your name was?’

‘This is Lily,’ I said, and watched as Lily took Mrs Traynor’s hand and shook it, studying her intently as she did so.

We stood there on her front step for a moment, and finally, as if she thought she had no alternative, Mrs Traynor turned and pushed the door open. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’

The cottage was tiny, its ceilings so low that even I had to duck when moving from the hall to the kitchen. I waited as Mrs Traynor made tea, watching Lily walk restlessly around the tiny living room, navigating her way among the few bits of highly polished antique furniture that I remembered from my days in Granta House, picking things up and putting them down again.

‘And … how have you been?’

Mrs Traynor’s voice was flat, as if it were not a question she was really seeking an answer to.

‘Oh, quite well, thank you.’

Long silence.

‘It’s a lovely village.’

‘Yes. Well. I couldn’t really stay in Stortfold …’ She poured boiling water into the teapot and I couldn’t help but be reminded of Della, moving heavily around Mrs Traynor’s old kitchen.

‘Do you know many people in the area?’

‘No.’ She said it as if that might have been the sole reason for her moving there. ‘Would you mind taking the milk jug? I can’t fit everything on this tray.’

There followed a painfully laboured half-hour of conversation. Mrs Traynor, a woman infused with the instinctive upper-middle-class skill of being all over any social situation, had apparently lost the ability to communicate. She seemed only half with us when I spoke. She asked a question, then asked it again ten minutes later, as if she had failed to register the answer. I wondered about the use of anti-depressants. Lily watched her surreptitiously, her thoughts ticking across her face, and I sat between them, my stomach in an increasingly tight knot, waiting for something to happen.

I chattered on into the silence, talking of my awful job, things I’d done in France, the fact that my parents were well, thank you – anything to end the awful, oppressive stillness that crept across the little room whenever I stopped. But Mrs Traynor’s grief hung over the little house, like a fog. If Mr Traynor had seemed exhausted by sadness, Mrs Traynor appeared to be swallowed by it. There was almost nothing left of the brisk, proud woman I had known.

‘What brings you to this area?’ she said, finally.

‘Um … just visiting friends,’ I said.

‘How do you two know each other?’

‘I … knew Lily’s father.’

‘How nice,’ said Mrs Traynor, and we smiled awkwardly. I watched Lily, waiting for her to say something, but she had frozen, as if she, too, were overwhelmed, faced with the reality of this woman’s pain.

We drank a second cup of tea, and remarked upon her beautiful garden for the third, possibly fourth time, and I fought the sensation that our enduring presence was requiring a sort of superhuman effort on her behalf. She didn’t want us there. She was far too polite to say so, but it was obvious that she really just wanted to be on her own. It was in every gesture – every forced smile, every attempt to stay on top of the conversation. I suspected that the moment we were gone she would simply retreat into a chair and stay there, or shuffle upstairs and curl up in her bed.

And then I noticed it: the complete absence of photographs. Where Granta House had been filled with silver-framed pictures of her children, of their family, ponies, skiing holidays, distant grandparents, this cottage was bare. A small bronze of a horse, a watercolour of some hyacinths, but no people. I found myself shifting in my seat, wondering if I had simply missed them, gathered on some occasional table or windowsill. But no: the cottage was brutally impersonal. I thought of my own flat, my utter failure to personalize it or allow myself to turn it into any kind of a home. And I felt suddenly leaden, and desperately sad.