Luckily we'd never gone through the backing away and closing down stage some mothers and daughters do, and after a moment's internal dialogue and resentment at being disturbed, I'd nod and agree to pack up my things and come with her. Making my dear mother anxious in order to deal with my own grief was not something I was going to do. I worried about her far too much for that. She was still young and very pretty, with a heart-shaped face, auburn curls, dancing hazel eyes and fabulous legs, and many men in the county, or even outside the county, would be thinking — wow, Maggie Penhallow. Give her a couple of years to — you know — then I'd definitely have a crack. But I knew it wasn't like that. It wouldn't be a couple of years, or indeed ever, to my relief in the early days, and to my sorrow now.

Mum and Dad had something infinitely special. They completed each other. They were outrageously silly together, they laughed until tears rolled down Mum's face, and although of course they bickered, I never heard a flaming row. Not like my friend Shona's parents, who I'd heard more than once when I'd stayed the night. It seems to me a good marriage is one where the whole becomes more than the sum of its two parts, and that was my parents. An average marriage is when two parts operate competently, but separately. A disastrous one is when the two parts are actually reduced by the whole, and that is what happened with me and Hugo. Mum and Dad galloped along joyously together, just as they hunted, side by side, popping over life's obstacles, with me in their wake. And of course, it might have helped that he was away a lot. She missed him, so why waste precious time arguing when he was at home?

I sometimes wonder if that's how Mum got through it: she was used to his absences, and this was just a much longer one. Indeed, when we were riding along the beach one day, her on one of the youngsters, and me on my now three-year-old that Mum had bought from Iris as a yearling, she admitted, with a smile, that a lot of the time she lived purely in her head and pretended he was away on exercise.

“So do I." I'd turned to her wide-eyed, as if surprised that was allowed.

She'd shrugged. "In the immortal words of John Lennon, whatever gets you through the night."

We'd cantered on, at the edge of the surf.