‘Some.’ He thought of a way to provide her with a reason to stay if she wasn’t ready to be on her own yet. ‘But it’s so restricted by the weather that I have a side business. Want to see?’

The sun caught her eyes as she glanced at him questioningly. ‘Sounds interesting.’

‘I think so.’ He went to the kitchen door and took down a key from a hook then led her to his workshop on the side of the house, switching on the light as they entered.

She halted as she saw the parade of glossy instruments on the wall. ‘Wow. Guitars! Lots of.’ Then she looked around at his woodworking machinery, the router, a couple of electric saws, a pillar drill, and all the hand tools on racks or stands. ‘You make them?’

‘That’s right. Some I make to commission, others I make for stock for anyone who wants to buy off the peg.’ He lifted one down from the wall. ‘I’ve nearly finished this. It’s a Fender-style Jaguar in mahogany, sprayed British Racing Green. The action’s a bit high. That means the strings aren’t close to the fretboard. Some people don’t like it in case when they’re bending a string it slips under another, but it’s less likely to buzz.’ He put it back and took down another. ‘I chose a natural finish for this one, so it’s clear-lacquered rather than painted. It’s semi-acoustic, which means it has a hollow body and doesn’t have to be plugged in to play. The body’s oak, the neck rosewood and the fretboard black walnut.’

‘You played well last night.’ Her pallor had warmed a touch.

‘I think it would be almost impossible to make guitars if I wasn’t at least competent. I wouldn’t understand what I could do or why I was doing it.’ He took her around each instrument, explaining which woods he’d used and where he’d got them, and that people often went for oak because it seemed a mark of quality but actually it was so brittle that it wasn’t his favourite to work with. He played a couple of scales on a semi-acoustic so she could hear the notes drifting onto the air. Then his landline began to ring.

She glanced at the extension on the wall of the workshop. ‘Don’t ignore it on my account.’

‘It’ll be my mum, probably.’ But when he answered the voice that came at him down the line was high-pitched and excited.

‘Uncle Aaron, I haven’t seen you for ages. It’s nearly dinnertime, Granny says.’

Aaron grinned at the indignation in the passionate little voice. ‘I had a lot of tidying up to do this morning,’ he fibbed. ‘Tell Granny I’ll be there.’ After a little more chitchat, he replaced the receiver, aware of a slight sense of disappointment that Clancy had moved to the door.

‘It’s time I went,’ she said, making a valiant effort at a casual smile. ‘Thank you for letting me use your Wi-Fi and for … listening.’