‘Hello Lulu!’ he said.

And just for a second, as I registered what he had called me, I was Lulu. And then she was gone.

The transformation started in the butchers, in Leominster, where we stopped to buy lunch. Peering through the glass at the meats, pasties and pies, nose to glass, small son spotted the wands, painted in bright primaries in the tray next to the pasties.

Handmade, said the butcher. Like the pasties. From a local yew. The wands, I mean. Not the pasties. Hand-painted too. All of them. By me. It’s a hobby of mine.

Do they work, asked small son. Smaller son, balanced on my hip, pointed at the pasties.

Depends what you ask for, said the butcher, wisely, wiping his hands down his apron.

Two pork pies, two pasties and one red and blue striped wand later, we are sitting in the long grass around a grave, Lulu’s grave, grandmother Lulu who died so long before I was born, I hardly know why I’m here. But here I am, miles and miles from home with a pair of shears, a small bottle of washing up liquid, some concrete, a bucket and sponge, beside her in the unkempt graveyard, with husband and small sons, to polish her up a bit, take a pic, report back to dad. This is our first visit.

In my bag, alongside the wand and the lunch, there a few photos, a hand-drawn map of the village and a gift-wrapped book from dad to an old friend. I take out one of them, a portrait of Lulu at 18, beautiful in a dark cape, her black curly hair combed neatly, parted in the middle, a bit like I wore my own curls at that age. Her almond eyes, set in a pale, oval face, are sad, full of some sort of regret, some sort of prescience maybe.

Why did she die, asks small son, looking from the picture to me and back again. Smaller son is toppling about, from stone to grass and back again, picking at the flowers, herb roberts growing up around the rectangle, little rich pink dashes of colour we knew as children as death come quickly.

She was ill, I say. Very ill. And very young. I look at the dates on the headstone to remind myself. The age I am now. In her 30s. She was sent here to be safe in the war. With her two boys.

They have both stopped moving about in the grass, and are sitting, looking at me.

So grandpa lived here?

Grampa, echoes smaller son.

Yes, he did. And after we’ve done this, we have to deliver a present to one of his old friends.

I hand them both their lunch. Small sons sits on the edge of the grave, smaller son stands and flops into my lap, pasty in hand.

I take out a map from the bag, with the dozen or so streets of the tiny village, and an x-marks-the-spot where dad’s childhood friend lives.

Have we met him? asks small son.

No, and he doesn’t have a phone so he doesn’t know we’re coming. Look, this is a picture of him with grandpa when they were boys. And I take out the other photo from the bag. There’s a little pencil dot over one of the faces, grubby with mud, smiling. Next to him is young grandpa in the middle of the gang of boys, sitting on a garden wall, his hands and knees dirty from playing in the fields, unmistakably grandpa with his thick black curls and hints of Lulu flickering around his eyes. I prop both photos on the grave.

I wish she was alive, says small son, looking closely at them both. Alive, echoes smaller son, mouth full of pastry.

Resurrection is a bit of an ask for a first wish my boy, I think to myself, and am about to say ‘be careful what you wish for’, thinking of the decades that she’s been lying here alone, so far from home, so forgotten, but it’s too late. He’s standing up now and waving the wand, chanting ‘I wish you were alive, I wish you were alive’. ‘Alive, alive’, echoes smaller son smearing me with cold beef and potatoes, pulling himself up to join his brother and march round and round the grave, their blond hair bobbing.

The wind rises in a small sigh in the grass around us, then settles back down, and we start the job of renovation, filling in the cracks in the stone, flattening back the peeling metal letters of her name into the stone while the boys play hide and seek round the empty churchyard. I try to think of something to say to her when we’ve finished, but I’m lost for words, embarrassed that’s it’s taken so many years to come and say hello, so I take a few pictures of the boys patting the headstone, then pack up the bags.

We head off into the village on foot, following small son who is leading us, map in one hand, wand in the other, smaller son in husband’s arms, bags in mine, straight through the village and out the other side to a huge house behind a garden wall I recognise from the old photo.

For the second time today, I wonder how we will introduce ourselves, this unannounced group of strangers arriving at an old man’s house, led by a small boy waving a red and blue stick. But there’s no need to say anything. As we walk up the path through the garden to the front door a face appears at an open window, and a grey-bearded man with a shock of long white hair waves at me, smiling.

Hello Lulu, he says, how lovely to see you after all this time, and for a second I can feel her flit across my face, her eyes looking out of mine at us all. She hovers, checking us out, and then she is gone. Oh, he says, looking more closely at me, puzzled. I’m so sorry, for a minute there I thought . . that was so long ago but you’re the spit of her. Which means, he laughs, your dad sent you. Come in.

Reflected in the open window I can see two small boys dancing for joy in the garden behind me, one waving the blue and red wand triumphantly, the other waving a stick as they shout ‘Alive, alive, alive, alive!’