Almost reluctantly Will read it out. ‘Are you planning on visiting her today? I could bunk off early. Give you some moral support.’

‘No, it’s fine. I’d rather go alone.’ She began to run through the buses that would take her to the outlying villages and was already on her way towards the High Street when she realised Will was still talking.

‘So you know, after Christmas, we could meet up to go through everything I’ve found out about the Mandevilles and Caxtons.’

‘Ok, if you’d like to.’

‘Really? Brilliant. I’ll book the carvery up the road. You know, because we’ll need a table to spread out all of the papers.’

Oh crap. Had she unwittingly agreed to a date?

‘When are you free next?’

Somehow, she had. ‘I’ll have to let you know. I’m a bit busy at the moment.’

‘No problem. You know, whenever is cool.’

Lou imagined Will running his fingers through his floppy fringe, his cheeks pink.

‘I’ll phone you then. Bye, Will.’

‘Ok. Speak soon, Louisa.’

Poor Will. If he had any idea what a disaster zone she was, he’d run for cover. She’d call him in the New Year and let him off the hook.

After a few minutes at the bus stop on the High Street, Lou boarded an almost empty bus. It took a route away from town, across the road bridge over the motorway, along the bypass and out into the open countryside. As it wound down small roads through villages, Lou relaxed back into the seat. She had never taken this bus before. Outings always involved heading in the opposite direction, towards the bright lights of Northampton.

Like a kid pressing her nose to a toyshop window, she watched the villages pass by. Each one was a version of the last, with quaint pubs, neat churches, and rows of cottages with puffs of smoke fluffing from their chimneys. This chocolate box world was just a bus ride from her own life, yet she had never known it existed.

They reached a sign – Please drive carefully through beautiful Buryton – and Lou rang the bell. The bus deposited her at a picture-perfect village, just like all those she had passed through. She checked the address and found the house; a small, whitewashed cottage just off the village green, with a holly wreath on the front door.

Through the open curtains, she could see an old lady sitting in a high–backed armchair before a fire, a standard lamp behind her. On a small table lay a roll of wrapping paper and some children’s toys. A board game. A wooden truck. The lady smiled as she folded the paper around the truck, sealing it with tape and pressing on a bow.

Was this Mrs Hart’s Elizabeth? What if it was? What could Lou possibly say to her? Oh, hi, I’ve travelled from the past to meet you. You know, the past you travelled back to when you were a kid. I think you were an evacuee from London in the Second World War and lived at Hill House for a few years. Fancy chatting about that?