I suddenly feel peculiar, a little light-headed, maybe, and as I reach for another ginger snap I notice my hand is trembling more than usual.

I suppose I’m thinking this poor lady was the same age as me. But that’s where the similarity ends, I tell myself firmly. I’d never choose leek and potato soup, for starters – so bland.

I swallow. Yesterday’s incident with the jar was an unpleasant reminder of exactly how easy it can be to stop coping. And not coping can turn drastic quickly when you’re on your own.

‘We should do more for people like that,’ I say suddenly. ‘With all the bus timetables getting cut down and the Dales Senior Transport lot having funding trouble, it’s hard for them to get anywhere even if they want to.’

Everyone looks rather surprised. Usually if the inhabitants of Knargill are mentioned in a Neighbourhood Watch meeting, it’s followed by some mischievous cackling from Betsy, who will then declare ‘it serves them right for living in Knargill’.

‘Well, yes, I suppose,’ Penelope says querulously into the silence.

‘Let’s put it on the next agenda,’ I say. I make a note on my printout.

There’s a slightly awkward pause.

‘You know, over in Firs Blandon they’re talking about setting up a rival May Day celebration,’ Basil says, looking at me shrewdly, as if he’s testing my loyalties.

‘They’re not!’ I say, tsking. Basil ought to know I’d never side with Firs Blandon. A decade or two ago, when Hamleigh lost power for three days after a big storm, all the other villages offered funds and spare rooms to help those who couldn’t manage without their heaters. Not a soul in Firs Blandon lifted a finger. ‘Well,’ I say staunchly, ‘a Firs Blandon May Day will never be as good as ours.’

‘Of course it won’t!’ Betsy declares, and everybody relaxes now we’re back on safe ground. ‘More biscuits, anybody?’

The rest of the meeting passes as normal, but my nasty peculiar feeling nags me all day. I’m glad Leena’s coming tomorrow. I’m rather worn out, and it’s an awful lot easier to be independent when there’s somebody else there with you.

5

Leena

Hamleigh-in-Harksdale is as cute as it sounds. The village is cosied between two hills in the south of the Yorkshire Dales; I can just see its rooftops and wonky chimneys between tawny crags as the bus rattles along the valley road.

I didn’t grow up in Hamleigh – Mum only moved there when Carla got sick. There are two versions of the village in my mind: half my memories have a sweet, sepia-toned childhood nostalgia to them, and the other half are darkly painful, raw with loss. My stomach clenches. I try to remember how I felt here as a child, the joy of coming around this bend in the road to see Hamleigh’s roofs ahead of us.

Even when we were teenagers, always at each other’s throats, Carla and I would make peace for the duration of a visit to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s house. We’d grouch about the parties we’d be missing as Mum drove us up from Leeds, but as soon as we got to Hamleigh we remembered who we were here. Illicit cider and kissing with sixth-form boys would seem slightly absurd, like something from someone else’s life. We’d be outside all day, collecting blackberries together in old Tupperwares with cracks in their lids, not caring about the scratches on our newly shaven legs until we were back home and had them on show under school skirts rolled up at the waist.

I watch the colours of the Dales streak by through the grubby bus window: russets, greens, the sandy grey of drystone walls. Sheep lift dozy eyes our way as we pass. It’s drizzling lightly; I can almost smell it already, the way the rain makes the earth smell bright, as if it’s just woken up. The air is fresher here.

Not here on the bus, of course. The air on the bus smells of stale sleep and somebody’s chicken tikka sandwich. But as soon as I step out, I know that first breath in will be beautiful.

Hamleigh itself is made up of just three streets: Lower Lane, Middling Lane, and Peewit Street, which really ought to have been called Upper Lane, but there we are, that’s quirky village life for you. The houses are mostly squat limestone cottages with higgledy slate roofs, but to the furthest edge of Middling Lane there’s a new development – it stands out like a cold sore on the corner of the village, all brash orange brick and black-edged windows. Grandma despises it. Whenever I point out to her that Britain is in desperate need of new affordable housing, she says, ‘only because buggers like you keep spending so much on shoebox flats in London’, which I have to concede is a pretty sound point, economically speaking. I only wish I was one of the buggers who’d actually got around to doing that instead of choosing to spend tens of thousands on renting the artisan warehouse lifestyle.

I head straight from the bus stop to Grandma’s house. I find myself averting my eyes as I walk past the turning on to Mum’s street, like when you pass a traffic accident on the motorway, horribly aware of it pulling at the corner of your vision.

My grandmother’s house is the most beautiful one in the village: Clearwater Cottage, No 5 Middling Lane. A wibbly old slate roof, wisteria climbing up the front wall, a ruby red door … It’s a fairy-tale home. That knot of anxiety lodged between my ribs loosens as I walk up the garden path.

I lift the knocker.

‘Leena?’ comes Grandma’s voice.

I frown. I look right, then left, then up.

‘Grandma!’ I shriek.

My grandmother is halfway up the apple tree to the left-hand side of the front door. She’s almost as high as the upstairs windows, each foot wedged against a branch, dressed in khaki trousers and a brown top, both of which merge very effectively with the greenery. If it weren’t for the shock of white hair, I might not have spotted her.

‘What the hell are you doing up that tree?’

‘Pruning!’ Grandma calls. She waves a large, sharp implement at me. I wince. I am not reassured by this.

‘You’re very … high up!’ I say, trying to be tactful. I don’t want to say she’s too old for this, but all I can think about is that episode of 24 Hours in A&E where an elderly lady fell off a chair and broke six bones. This tree is considerably higher than a chair.

Grandma begins to shimmy down. Really. Shimmy.

‘Take it slow! Don’t rush on my account!’ I call, nails biting into my palms.

‘There!’ Grandma even hops the last bit of the drop, brushing her hands on her thighs. ‘If you want something done well, do it yourself,’ she tells me. ‘I’ve been waiting for the tree man to come for months.’

I look her over. She seems unscathed. Actually she looks well, if a little tired – there’s some colour in her cheeks, and her brown eyes are bright behind her green-rimmed glasses. I reach forward to pull a leaf out of her hair, and smooth it back into its usual loose, wavy bob. She takes my hand and squeezes it.

‘Hello, love,’ she says, face melting into a smile. ‘Hot chocolate?’

*

Grandma makes hot chocolate the proper way: on the hob, with cream and real chocolate. It’s pure decadence in a mug. Carla used to say that if you have more than one you won’t have room for meals for the rest of the day, and it is my absolute favourite thing.