Fountains. At last.

There were deer and ancient trees and the long shadows of a midsummer evening. The trees were in full new leaf, the alchemy of green into gold. The sweet birds were singing. Julia would have loved it here.

He’d arrived after the gates were closed and had to find another, slightly less legal way in.

The deer were quiet, not startled at all by a man and a dog. The dog was on a lead. They walked past a big house and a church, both ‘designed by Burges’, whoever he was. Jackson may have been a trespasser but he was a well-informed trespasser. The place was better without people. Most things were, in Jackson’s opinion. ‘Just you and me,’ he said to the dog.

The abbey itself didn’t disappoint, although Jackson still preferred the more homely remains of Jervaulx. He let the dog off the lead and walked up to the High Ride, the path that ran along the top of the valley that sheltered Fountains. He stopped at Anne Boleyn’s Seat to contemplate the glorious vista of lawns and water that led to the ruins of the abbey in the distance. No sign of any headless women. Twilight. In Scotland, where Louise was, it would be the gloaming.

He walked back down again and wandered amongst the ruins. The dog ran off, chasing like a cheetah after a rabbit. Jackson sat on the low stones of an old wall. He thought it might be part of the cloister but when he peered at the signage he saw that it was part of the latrines. Probably time he cashed in that prescription for spectacles.

‘This is my letter to the World,’ he said to the dog when it returned, rabbit-less, ‘That never wrote to Me.’ The dog cocked its head. ‘I don’t know what it means either,’ Jackson said. ‘I think that’s the whole point of poetry.’

Just for a second, he thought he saw his sister, dressed in white, running and laughing, the petals falling from her hair. But that was poetry too. Or a certain slant of light.

Because all this time, in all these places, standing in the bare ruined choirs and the echoing engine sheds or sitting in the tearooms and the Golden Fleece pubs, his sister was there in the shadows, laughing and shaking blossom off her clothes, out of her hair, like a bride, a shower of petals like thumbprints on the dark veil of her hair.

She was locked in the echo-chamber of his heart as the queen of the May, a holy virgin. (‘For ever,’ Julia said fiercely, thumping her chest and then keeping her arm folded across it like a warrior giving allegiance. ‘Dead to the world but alive in your heart.’ The eternal paradox of the missing.) She had gone before him and he was never going to catch her. He could live with that, he decided. It wasn’t as if he had a choice.

‘On the road again,’ Jackson said, getting into the Saab. ‘Miles to go, and so on.’

His compliant co-pilot in the footwell gave an encouraging little yap. Jane awaited instruction.

There was still something nagging at him. Not Michael and Hope, not Jennifer, the little girl in Munich – it was thinking about her missing brother that had finally prompted him into asking Marilyn Nettles the right question.

It was something else. A scar, a sign, a birthmark the shape of Africa. Something he had seen recently. He supposed the small men in his brain would locate it eventually.

He was about to start the engine when his phone rang. Louise, the screen informed him. Jackson hesitated, imagining what might happen if he didn’t answer it.

And what would happen if he did.

‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul –

And sings the tune without the words –

And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –

And on the strangest Sea –

Yet, never, in Extremity,

It asked a crumb – of Me.

Emily Dickinson