When Shirley got bored, she’d borrow her sister’s car and we’d go out. Her mum had National Trust membership; Shirley borrowed that too. I’d map read while Shirley told me how spending an afternoon at a castle or country pile, at some icon of our heritage, was fun and inspirational; I might find new material. Shirley liked driving. Of the many things she could do that I couldn’t, it was far and away the most useful. She was good at it. She could talk, smoke, lose and find her sunglasses, rummage in her bag on the back seat, and still drive. Sometimes, on the M25 or a dualled stretch of the A21, she’d pick a car in the distance and chase it. Overtake, if her sister’s engine didn’t flake out. That happened, especially uphill. We’d shout and slam ourselves at the dashboard till the car picked up again.

Neither of us was civilised, far from it. We went to those places hopeful that civilisation would catch on us, like the little yellow caterpillars that fell on our hair in the woods. And so we could have ice cream. By one of our many unspoken rules, we never ate ice cream - together or apart - except on those afternoons. It was one of our sweeter proxies. From our separate flats in South East London we ranged over Kent and Sussex. Surrey seemed too forbidding, Essex another world. One Saturday she phoned, she said, “I’ve got the car. Shall we go to Batemans? Kipling’s place.”

“He won’t be there.”

A lot of our trips kicked in on the A21, where I practised the responsible art of navigation. Too lazy, too ironic in my worldliness, to learn to drive, still I felt bad that I couldn’t offer to give Shirley a break from the wheel. She helped me live with that guilt by leaving out the satnav and never planning a route. I’d hunch beneath layers of maps, collecting junctions, acknowledging roundabouts, giving warning of potential decisions three and four miles ahead. Making bold predictions for how long before the turnoff, how the layout might look when we got there. Cheerfully clueless about where we were, Shirley would seek guidance; I’d aim to satisfy her in a positive way. It hurt when things didn’t go right. But from that I scavenged material and devoured the praise when - to my shock - we’d arrive where we’d meant to be.

Past the level crossing by Etchingham Station we could relax to admire the many pubs of Burwash, selecting where to stop for a pint or three on the way back. Shirley was scrupulous: she’d only drink till she was drunk. I’ll admit to a muddle with the by-way - the sign was overgrown. But Shirley could u-turn on a pin and soon we parked outside that small, pretty house, with its views of serious nowhere. We fell in love with the place, of course. We fell in love with them all. We made plans for which would be our rooms, how we’d arrange the settees in the lounge, where on the lawn we’d drink white wine in the late afternoon sun. Shirley suggested she’d wear a dress, if we were drinking wine. We never spoke about these ownerships any other time. We never mentioned the gross unlikelihood of having a Batemans, a Standen, or Chartwell. Only there, on Shirley’s mum’s ticket, we’d fall inevitably, unironically, into our dreams.

I got delayed in old man Kipling’s library, marvelling at all he had time for, revelling in the cadence, the cautionary disquiet of ‘Recessional’ and ‘If’, the barbs of ‘Tommy’, bayonet sharp. Those old men in antique houses, the world in their visitors’ book, their celebrity and infamy, even as the poetry slipped their grasp. I found Shirley upstairs, rearranging bedrooms, deciding what original wallpaper she’d keep. From the window, across the garden wall, a track through the trees looked inviting. Always, we’d follow those tracks, find a clearing away from the house, away from people. Touch the backs of each other’s hands, maybe hug, just once, just quickly. Shirley would giggle. That was us, really. I suggested a walk, to deserve our ice cream. Shirley - who always picked up one of those little plans of the house and consulted it before making a move - discovered a mill, far side of the woods. “Where they make flour,” she told me. “I could bake with that.” She could. She loved the idea of baking.

Away from the walled garden, the day grew properly rustic. Thanks to the plucky, eccentric car - getting oven hot in the overspill parking - we let our citified love of the country persuade us we really could move out, sink into the landscape. A little hand-holding, no one would see. We’d whisper of warm days and toastie nights, building a fire while thunder raged, muted beyond thick curtains. Walking in woods that led to the sea, a lake, to some far country. I slipped my arm round Shirley’s waist. She giggled. We slid apart.

The mill at Batemans is a modern resurrection. Kipling, marvellously, had converted it to generate electricity while no doubt eating store-bought white bread. For a better heritage experience, it got switched back to grind souvenir flour. A crowd of grindstone enthusiasts watched three bearded, floury men demonstrate what had once been mundane labour. Some talked knowledgeably about different grades of grinding. Some took pictures. Shirley was entranced. “I’m going to watch the whole thing.” Her delight was completely endearing. “Then buy the flour. I’ll watch them make it, then buy it.”

“Then bake the bread?”

She grinned. “It will inspire me.”

I had no equivalent interests that sounded half as true. A natural end to the tour, the mill got busy, people crowding in for the dusty old men. “I’ll wait outside,” I said. She nodded keenly. We were always keen to show the world we could give each other space.

Losing the crowd, I followed the mill stream up to a gate, climbed over - no sign said not to. Through a patch of trees the view spread out, unexpectedly, on a lake. I hazily guessed it had something to do with holding water above the mill. If Shirley was there, I would have said that with confidence. I was always amazed at the slackness of the countryside, how everything - lakes and woods, crops and barns - just lay around. Not deserted, though. A sudden splash, two splashes - a thunking, plughole swallow. A young girl, eleven or twelve, skimming stones on the water. Intent, the way solitary children are; absorbed in improving her aim. Two good stones - two, three kisses on the calm surface. Then a sinker, a satisfied belch as the lake took it down. She stopped when she saw me.

I thought I’d ignore her, but with no one around that seemed odd, maybe sinister. I found some flattish rocks, held them up like charms. “Used to do this when I lived by the sea.”

She stared, peeved. “Thought you were a man when I saw you.”

Yeah – short hair and these clothes; I get that a lot. “Not quite. How far you think I could skim this?”

“It’s the wrong shape.”

I don’t know kids, except to swear at. I wouldn’t have called her pretty. Blonde hair lank as willow fronds framed a tapered, unyielding face. No doubt she’d get used to being called ‘strong’ or ‘striking’. Very slender - outdoor life, I guessed. I looked at the stone she’d dismissed. “It’s smooth.”

“It’s round like a cup.” She sounded exasperated. “You need one flat like a saucer.” She pulled a black disc from the water’s edge. “Like this.”

“Shall we battle?”

“You won’t win.”

My careful wrist action invested the stone with a single bounce that took it straight under.

She stepped back, ponderous with how to place her feet. Coming on to the lake like a slow bowler, she brushed her stone four times on the water before it lost momentum.

“Well, yeah.” I deployed the sarky persona that - bolstered by sweat-soaked improv - eked out small change in lesser-known comedy clubs. “I learned by the sea. With sea stones. I’m not down with the inland game.”

“Salt water has marginally greater density. I don’t think the difference is significant. Not with stones. Here.” She offered one of hers.

I pulled a couple of reluctant zooms from it, before it went down.

“You drag your hand back. You’re meant to throw forward. Whole body.”

No doubt she’d get used to dates not returning her calls. “You spend all your time doing this, right?”

“I’m checking. The stones are a means.”

The lake lay regular, flat and blue. There was nothing about it to see. There weren’t even ducks to aim at. “You checking the flight of stones?”

“I understand their flight. I’m checking beneath.”

I knew nothing about kids. Except I hadn’t enjoyed being one. Unlike Shirley, who relished her childhood of pink icing and party frocks. Instinct said to treat the kid like a heckler. “You use stones to look underwater?”

Her bitten breath made clear how slow I was. She held out one of her special stones, arm’s length against the lake. “You see?”

“I may need some help here.”

So she did it again, lowering her arm then raising it, stone and water synchronised in my eyeline. I crouched, she hoisted her arm. The stone blotted out the lake. “You see? They’re the same.”

“So they dug the lake oval.”

“Dug the lake?” She was honestly shocked.

“It’s a millpond, yeah? That stream feeds the mill.”

“We made this.” With a power burst, she skimmed the stone six times out.

That country talk, had to be. That love of getting nowhere. “Your folks, you mean? That mill must be…” I hadn’t a clue. “Seventeen hundreds?”

“We were here before the mill. We told them to make it. The grindstone. We told the old man with his simple electric. We’re here with our ship.”

I hadn’t twigged we were playing “let’s pretend.” It shouldn’t have surprised me. So obviously an only child. Playing pretend with imaginary friends. Who doesn’t? “Did your ship sink in this ocean?”

She stared, eyes milky white. “It’s a lake. And our ship didn’t sink. It spun down.” She picked up another stone, smooth and flat.

“Like a grindstone.” The thought was in my head. But I didn’t think it. It wasn’t a moment for flight. No heart-pounding urge to run. The sky was the same fairweather clouds. The water was still water. But I was held in a thought I couldn’t forget. On a day which would always be that day.

Her chin bevelled towards me. “When our ship reached land, it spun and spun.”

“Into the earth.” Of course it had. I should have known.

“Hidden with water. They made their stones like it. We told them. Now my stones keep watch.”

“Your ship made the lake. When did you come here?”

“Before I was born. Long ago.”

“You were born here?”

“We all are now. But mummy taught me to skim stones. Like mummy’s mummy taught her. So we know where our ship is. For when we need it.”

A collision of water and stone. The whirr of stone on water. “Will you need it?”

“One day. We’re not forgotten.”

The stone flew: eight, nine, ten times on the water.

Sometimes, when a show went bad - when the laughs didn’t land, when the crowd was busy with drinking - I couldn’t tell Shirley how cold that felt, even if I wanted to. Shirley would be kind and supportive. You can’t force that on people. Before I got back to the mill, I knew I couldn’t tell her I’d been skipping stones. That same cold feeling, that disappointment where somehow I was to blame. A memory, planted into me, I had no choice but keep quiet about and endlessly chase what it meant.

The grindstone locked, the flour discharged into bags. Shirley held out the dinky pouch for approval. “It’s so authentic.” She thought so. “Fresh from the stone. I’ll bake real bread.”

She wouldn’t. The bag would get damp and sour.