Dad struggles for breath. 'Eva, Love, there's an extra roast potato waiting for you when we get to the pub if you can tell me what is unusual about this pillar box.'
He gestures with a weathered hand and we stop, all breathless, at the very crest of the road where the tarmac simply ends, rippled and crumbling into the dense green foliage.
'Um ... it's all boarded up?'
Dad swings his arms haughtily, his cheeks are blotchier than ever. 'That's not it.'
Eva continues to make guesses, and I feel an urge to speed her along with an answer but I'm not sure what Dad is getting at.
'Come on, you two,' I say. 'I'm starving. Let's get to lunch, shall we?'
'Oh, Hannah, give her a second. What's your hurry?'
I'm keen to get moving to the restaurant, but I have no appetite. I'm hyper-aware of the Wakefields' house and I keep my back to it, not daring to look.
I feel as though the property now takes on a presence of its own. Its breathing is steady, exhaling mouldy air silently into the sunshine. With the board torn away, it's as though the house has awoken, opened a sleepy eye with which to watch me intently. I feel self-conscious as I shift my weight from one foot to another, focussing on my nude canvas shoes.
Will drifts through the wooden pedestrian gate and wanders slowly into the trees waiting for us to catch up.
Eva shrugs, looking bewildered. 'I don't know, Granddad. People don't really use postboxes any more. I've never looked this close at one before.'
'You're not telling me you've never so much as sent a letter before, have you? Goodness gracious, Hannah. Haven't you taught this girl anything?'
I shrug. 'Most things are done online these days. We send occasion cards though.'
'Mum always handles that sort of thing,' Eva explains.
Dad shakes his head. 'Well, we will have to rectify that later. It's your Grandmother's birthday coming up soon. You'll have to send off a card before you leave. There's a more modern box near the railway station that us old people use.'
He explains that this particular pillar box is so old that it is inscribed with the initials G.R and not E.R as most other boxes are these days. Eva's eyes look vacant and glassy as she discovers that the revelation is a lot less interesting than she must have imagined.
Now that Dad explains it, I remember him telling me the same thing when I was little. I wonder if it was the same old red box? Was I standing just feet away from the Wakefields' house then? Did they even live here at that time? Perhaps they saw out the window a man stooping over to talk to his young daughter.
Goosebumps erupt on my forearms and I wrap them around myself, wishing my husband was still holding my hand.
As we enter the thicket of trees, we catch up with Will who falls back to let his father-in-law once again lead the way. His expression is inscrutable.
Our trudge over the muddy forest floor leads us through the furthest end of Little Bishopsford's wood and onto the edge of a modern housing estate.
Skirting around the outside of the smart detached houses and bungalows, we eventually reach the Kings Arms; a modern building styled with character Tudor frontage to give it the look of a traditional pub and restaurant.
Dad orders us all a Sunday Roast. And when our food arrives, he insists on giving Eva an extra potato, even though she didn't answer his question correctly.
I fork my way through my lunch, acutely aware of how large and fatty it is and how I should really be cutting down. My weight has finally slipped into the next dress size up, after threatening to do so ever since Eva was born. Clothes sit in my wardrobe at home, bought with Will in mind that I haven't been able to wear yet. I just need to get back into shape first so I can get his attention when I wear them.
We sit at a table in front of large glass windows, through which, the beer garden is visible. There is a neatly cut square of green grass and in the corner sits a small children's play area. Dotted here and there are picnic benches which are heaving with families like us – multiple generations. In-laws with grandchildren on their lap. A family eating outside has a baby, and I watch with a slight wrench as the grandmother feeds it some carrot dipped in gravy. They all look so happy together.
For a long while now I have wanted another child – a sibling for Eva. But Will has always made it clear that our daughter is more than enough. I would be devastated if she ever found out, but Eva wasn't planned.
At that time it had felt too soon in my career to break it up with maternity leave, Will and I hadn't bought a place together yet and we were completely unprepared. But somehow we did it and now we have Eva, and I would do it all again to get her. I just wish we had a further addition to our family. Now approaching my late-thirties, I feel like time is running out.
Eva is the first to finish her meal and she moves outside to one of the unoccupied benches to accept a video-call from one of her school friends.
There had been an argument when I had told her that we would be staying away for part of the summer holidays. We had already decided to skip a holiday abroad this year to save the funds towards a bigger house. But one of Eva's friends had managed to arrange her parents' house to herself for a weekend and my daughter had plans to attend the party.
When we announced that we were coming to Little Bishopsford, Eva sulked in her room for the rest of the day. But the next morning, she was uncharacteristically placid so soon after such a flare-up. I suspect Will had intervened and I am grateful.
Dad asks Will how his work is going as I finish eating. It's nice to hear my husband talking to my father as though they are good friends. If I ignore Will's tense body language and the tapping of his foot beneath the table, I could even pretend he is happy to be here.
I sense my husband glance at me and realise that I am chewing the inside of my cheek – something I do when I'm nervous. I run my tongue around my mouth and feel broken inflamed skin; I must have been nibbling away all morning and not noticed.
As Will explains his computer virus removal service, I take a deep slow breath, being as subtle as I can.
It was my husband that taught me the technique years ago when we first got together. A certain number of breaths in a minute will calm the body, slow a pounding heart. He had learned how to calm himself whilst alone in his bedroom as a child, listening to his parents rowing downstairs.
In my early twenties, I suffered terribly with anxiety, in my teens too. But Will wasn't there to see it until after I left Uni. He simply appeared in my life when I needed him the most.
I had just started working in my first job in York as a teaching assistant when I met him again. I had been on a night out in Leeds with my new colleagues. I couldn't believe that Will and I had simply run into each other by chance after so many years.
When I saw him again, the fire in me was relit and I knew I couldn't hope to put it out. All my old feelings rushed back, and then some.
His mother had moved to France and he had left Manchester to set up his own computer repair business, coincidentally, in York.
I didn't intend for it to happen, but that night, we clicked. We sent endless messages to each other over the next few weeks and eventually, we moved in together. It didn't take much thought, it had just felt right.
Will had been April's childhood boyfriend. A bit of experimental mucking about that amounted to nothing more than a few months. It was never serious.