The cemetery isn’t far.
After lunch, we take a slow walk down to it, treading along a narrow, nettle-lined footpath. Everyone is silent; an odd contrast to the chatter of the birds and the hum of crickets in the fields full of long grass and wildflowers we pass.
It’s strange. Ru and I have run around the church grounds hundreds of times when we’ve visited Nan and Grandpa in the past, and all along his parents have been buried here, with us completely oblivious. There’s even a chance we played tag around their graves, or leant up against their headstones as we rested.
Ru catches my gaze. I can tell he’s thinking the same thing.
Aunt Claire and her husband, Antony, turn out to be buried at the very back of the cemetery, resting underneath a large weeping willow. Its trailing leaves touch
