Oh, says my mother. Oldton's just a few miles down the road.
She then shows me an olde worlde map of Norfolk hanging in her hallway and there it is, clearly marked: Oldton.
After searching all over the UK, it turns out all I had to do was ask my mum. It seems so obvious now.
Trouble is, we each have our own different ways of dealing with disappearances and giving shape to memories that have no name. This is my story, not my mum's, and I want to keep it that way.
I drive over to Oulton (as it is now) after lunch and find a deserted church, signs of an abandoned airfield and not a lot else. Nothing is familiar. Another dead end. In a way I am relieved.