Stil in a daze, I jump up, stretching, and climb off the train, nearly bumping into someone on the platform. I look up and around me. I am here.

You can smel the sea in the air. It is warmer than London, though it’s stil February and the wind is sharp. I huddle into my coat as I reach the end of the platform, wondering who’s come to meet me. Mum said she or Archie would. People saunter past; there’s no bustling and jostling like Paddington. It stil does always remind me of The Railway Children.

‘Nat?’ A voice floats across the hordes of people. ‘Natasha!’

I glance up.

‘Natasha! Over here!’

I look behind me and there is Jay, my beloved cousin. He is striding towards me, so tal , smiling sort of sheepishly. He folds me in his arms and I close my eyes, sinking into his embrace. When Jay is here, everything is always a bit better. He’s one of those people who leaves a gap when he exits a room.

‘It’s good to see you,’ he tel s me, dropping a kiss onto my head.

‘You were on the train?’

‘I looked for you, then I fel asleep. I had a late night, we were working through.’ Jay is a website designer; he works crazy hours, but he stays out crazy hours too. ‘I had to get some sleep.’ He squeezes me tight. ‘This is a sad day.’

I nod and link my arm through his as we walk outside, into the fresh air.

The car park is next to the harbour, where ships and boats of every kind over the centuries have arrived and disem-barked, spil ing out silks and spices and foods and wines from the furthest corners of the world. The riggings clatter against the masts, tinkling loudly in the gusting breeze.

Seagul s shriek overhead.

‘Jay! Sanjay! Over here!’ We look up to see my uncle Archie, leaning against his car, waving cool y at us.

I always forget when I first see him how much my uncle reminds me of those older male models, the kind you see in ads for cruises and dentures. Like my mother, he was very handsome when he was younger: I’ve seen the photos. Now, he’s like someone from a bygone era; suave, inter national, at ease in any situation. Today he’s in a dark suit but his usual uniform is a blazer, dark trousers, immaculate pressed pink or blue checked shirts with big gold cufflinks. He has a signet ring. His Asian father and English mother have given him a dual citizenship, also like my mother, with which he struggled when he was younger, but has now embraced extremely enthusiastical y. It’s almost his badge. He speaks with a posh English accent but at home his wife Sameena cooks the best Indian food you’l find in Ealing, a mil ion times better than most of the ropey curry houses on the main drag of Brick Lane.

Jay and I are very similar, but I love how his dad and my mum, the twins, half Indian, went different ways. With me, my Indian heritage is hardly visible beyond my dark hair and olive skin, thanks to a mother who uses it in a lazy cross-cultural way when she wants to show off, and thanks to a father who I assume is white, although who knows? Whereas Jay goes the other way, the reverse of me. He is almost whol y Indian, and slips easily back into that culture, thanks to Sameena, then back into the world of Summercove, as if he’s changing from one pair of comfortable shoes to another. I envy him that ability, and I love him for it.

Jay is waving back at his father. ‘Look at him,’ he says, as Archie sneaks a look at his reflection in the car window, staring intently at himself for a brief second. ‘He’s looking more and more like Alan Whicker every day. Hey, Dad,’ he says.

‘Aha, Natasha, my dear.’ Archie hugs me enthusiastical y, gripping my shoulders. His moustache tickles my face as always and I have to tel myself not to shrink away. ‘It’s wonderful to see you. Jay. Son.’ He gives his son a wal oping great slap on the back. Jay rocks back against me.

‘I’m sorry about Granny,’ I tel him. ‘I am too,’ Archie says soberly. ‘I am too.’ He scratches the bridge of his nose vigorously, suddenly, and turns away. ‘Let’s be off.’ His hand is on the boot of the car. ‘Bags?’

‘No bags,’ I say.

Archie looks at me as if I’m insane. ‘No bags? Where are your things?’

I take a deep breath. ‘I can’t stay tonight, unfortunately,’ I say.

He stares at me. ‘Not staying? Does your mother know? That’s crazy, Natasha.’

‘I know,’ I say, trying to sound calm, col ected. ‘I’m real y sorry, but I’ve got a meeting tomorrow I can’t get out of.’ I wish I could tel them why. But I can’t. They mustn’t know, not yet.

‘I should have thought . . .’ Archie mutters, trailing off. Jay, who is watching me intently, jumps in.

‘The sleeper’s much better and if you have to get back for a meeting, there it is.’ His father frowns at him, opens his mouth to say something, but Jay presses on. ‘Come on, Nat,’ he says, slinging his rucksack into the boot. ‘We’re cutting it fine anyway, aren’t we? Let’s go.’

Suddenly, I remember Octavia and Julius. ‘I saw Octavia and Julius on the train. I mean, think I saw them,’ I amend. ‘Should we—’

‘Oh,’ Archie says, ruffled, he hates any interruption to his plans, to being told what to do by anyone except my mother. And indeed, our cousins are emerging from the station and looking around. ‘I’m sure they’l have made their own arrangements . . .’

But they haven’t, it turns out. Octavia and Julius are the kind of ruthlessly efficient people who expect others to be at their beck and cal . They’re like the answers to those survival guide questions: both of them could survive on a raft floating on the Indian Ocean with only a mirror and a comb for days, I’m sure. But they’d never think of getting round to booking a car or a taxi. They assume that someone else wil have got the train down too and wil furnish them with a lift. And they assume rightly, of course.

‘I must say, it’s extremely strange we didn’t bump into either of you on the train,’ Octavia says, as Archie drives off along the harbour. ‘I suppose you two were sitting together.’ She makes it sound as if we were planning a high-school shooting.

‘No,’ Jay says simply. ‘Meeting you al is a lovely surprise on this sad day.’

‘Jol y sad. So,’ Julius, already red in the face, looking more than ever like a fatter, less patrician version of Frank, his father, asks, ‘what’s the order of things today? Straight to the church? Or nosh first?’

Squashed next to Octavia in the back of the car, Jay and I dare not exchange looks. It’s as though we’re children again.

‘Hrrr.’ Archie clears his throat, self-importantly. ‘The funeral is at two, so we’re going straight to the church,’ he says. ‘Don’t have time to stop off beforehand and we couldn’t have it any later, some people –’ he raises his eyebrows – ‘ some people came down last night and are going back to London this evening.’ I nod politely.

‘We’l meet the others there, then?’ Jay says. ‘Yes, yes,’ Archie says briskly, as though he’s got it al under control and supplementary questions are ridiculous. ‘Father’s going with Miranda – with your mother, Natasha – to the church. Then we’re al off back to Summercove afterwards, for some food.’

‘I know Mum’s done an awful lot of cooking,’ Octavia says slowly. ‘She’s been flat out al week, poor thing. It’s been pretty stressful for her.’ She sighs. ‘And clearing out the house, getting poor Great-Uncle Arvind settled somewhere new – I mean, we al know he’s a bril iant man, but he’s not exactly easy, is he!’ She laughs.

Don’t let Octavia wind you up, I chant to myself. She signed up for an Oxbridge-graduates-only online dating service and she fancies George Osborne. That is the kind of person she is.

I would stil quite like to smack her though. I hope the feeling doesn’t stay with me al day. I wish I could. I wish I could get real y drunk at the wake and start a fight, EastEnders style. Perhaps I should. Archie and Jay are silent. I make a non-committal sound.

‘Your mum’s been wonderful,’ I force myself to say instead because it’s the truth, despite being annoying to admit. Louisa is the one who gets things done, she always has been. She is the one who’d take me into Truro to buy me new socks and shoes for the autumn term at school, muttering al the while about how someone had to do it, mind you, but stil . ‘Oh, Louisa, she is wonderful,’ is sort of her shoutline. That’s what you say about her, in the absence of anything else to say.

We are climbing up and out of Penzance. Below us, the sea is frothing and churning. There are dark, restless clouds on the horizon. We drive in silence for a while, going further inland. Here on the south coast the country is wild, but lush, greener than the rest of the country, even though it’s February. We pass Celtic crosses, their intricate decorations long worn away by the wind from the sea, and soon we are driving past the Merry Maidens, the ten girls who were turned to stone for dancing on a Sunday. They’re al so familiar. It is so strange to be here when it’s not high summer, but it is so wonderful al the same, and then I remember why I’m here. Granny would have loved a day like today, walking through the winding lanes and over the high exposed fields, a silk head-scarf covering her hair, her eyes alight with the joy of it al .

In the front, Archie turns to Julius. ‘So, Julius, how are the markets?’

‘Weul l l –’ Julius begins, in his low, blubbery voice. ‘Patchy, Archie. Patchy . . .’

I am spared the rest of his answer by Octavia turning to me.

‘How’s your jewel ery stuff going then?’ she asks, curiously. As ever I grit my teeth at this question, which makes it sound as though I’ve been to the Bead Shop and threaded a few plastic hearts onto a string for a friend’s birthday, rather than that it’s my job.