59 Memory Lane. Celia Anderson

and Lobster. Gramps’ bench. Her heart skips several beats and she slams the brakes on, causing the Range Rover behind her to toot madly. The man in it gives her a V sign as he screeches past, but the figure on the bench is on his feet now and giving one back.

      It’s not Gramps – of course it’s not. Emily never thought it was, really. She winds her window down.

      ‘Hello, Andy,’ she says, rubbing her eyes.

      ‘Oh, hello, Emily. I was afraid I’d miss you going past.’

      ‘No chance of that with the noises this car’s been making. But it got me here eventually.’

      ‘I wasn’t expecting you just yet. I’ve only just started my pint. Fancy joining me for one?’

      He holds up his glass, beaded with moisture. It’s true, he’s not made much headway into it yet. Emily’s taste buds spring back to life after the long, fetid drive. It’s been ages since she’s drunk anything but tonic water with a mean-spirited splash of vodka and a lot of ice and lemon to bulk it out. Even at the most lavish publishing parties she’s gone easy on the prosecco in case she misses vital undercurrents or starts to babble to an important client.

      ‘What about the car?’ she says, rather feebly. ‘I’m driving. I know it’s only down the road, but I’d hate to fall at the last fence. It’s been a long day.’

      ‘Geoff at the pub says it’s best if you park it up here anyway, because May’s car park’s full. Your grandpa’s old banger’s taking up all the space on the drive at number sixty, and the battery’s flat so we haven’t got around to moving it yet. The garage is full of all sorts of junk … I mean, things being stored.’

      Emily laughs. ‘Junk is about right. OK, I’ll park in the corner under the oak tree – then if it’s hot tomorrow I won’t singe my legs getting in.’

      She drives into the car park and tucks the car away as neatly as she can. Her bag isn’t heavy – she was determined to travel light this time – but Andy’s already reaching an arm out to take it from her.

      ‘You look shattered,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you go and sit round the back so we can see the harbour and you can have a slurp of my beer while I go and get you one of your own. Or would you rather have some wine? They do quite a good sauvignon blanc.’

      ‘Beer would be brilliant,’ says Emily, doing as she’s told.

      The view is spectacular. Stretching out to one side she can see the curve of the sandy beach, and to her right are the harbour walls, encircling a row of little boats. She can hear the mournful cry of the gulls and the hammering noises of someone making repairs to a wooden dinghy dragged far up onto the pebbles.

      Pengelly in early June. Emily can’t remember ever arriving at this time of year. Christmas breaks, school holidays and snatched weekends here and there during her working years haven’t prepared her for the freshness in the air and the timeless magic of a Cornish village without too many visitors, although as tourist spots go, this place has always been a bit off the beaten track. It’s cloudy now but the breeze is warm on Emily’s face and a sense of peace steals over her. Soothed, she reaches for the glass and has downed more than half Andy’s beer before she realises how fast she’s drinking.