‘I’m going to have to start work after this, I’m afraid,’ she said.

‘I’ll make myself scarce. Take a walk around the village for an hour or so.’

She looked up and caught me rubbing my stomach. ‘Just a thought, but why don’t you register with the GP’s surgery while you’re out?’

I didn’t need a doctor; no pill would take away the anxiety Harvey had caused. But it would be a chance to say hello to one half of Dad’s new tenants: Nicky the receptionist. ‘Why not?’ I said. ‘And I’ll check Adam and Nicky haven’t had any teething problems.’

Chapter 7

We were well into June now and the village was looking at its summery best. The grass verges were green, cottage gardens were a riot of colour, from poppies to peonies, and multi-coloured bunting zigzagged across the main street.

Fernfield was a large village on the fringes of the famous Chatsworth estate. It was peppered with charming gift shops selling everything from quirky mugs and locally made honey to beautiful woollen throws and cushions. It was a popular stop-off point for tourists as part of a day trip to Chatsworth House; consequently, the village was vibrant and bustling.

We were also lucky enough to have traditional shops serving our community, like the bakery, butcher and greengrocer, family-run businesses that had been here for generations. Of course, we still had a supermarket and a deli, several pubs, coffee shops and tea rooms, just like every other high street, but there was something special about Fernfield. If you squinted to block out some of the brighter signage, it wasn’t difficult to imagine how it would have looked a hundred years ago. At the very heart of the village was a crossroads. Turn one way and you’d be in the market square: a cobbled, pedestrianized area which hosted different vendors every day. The farmers’ market on a Friday, antiques on Sundays and second-hand books on Mondays; there was always something going on. Turn the other way and you found yourself in a narrow street, home to a lovely Italian restaurant, a pretty stone church set in its own tree-lined grounds and the flat-roofed doctors’ surgery, which was my destination.

I headed down the street and was about to cross the car park when a vehicle pootled past me and pulled into the disabled bay nearest to the entrance. The driver yanked on the handbrake so firmly I heard it from the gates.

An old lady, slim built with fine white hair perfectly swept into a chignon, climbed out of the passenger side. She was elegantly dressed in a blouse, skirt and neat shoes with a gold buckle at the front. She made her way slowly around the back of the car, trailing a hand on the bodywork and opened the boot. As I drew level with her, I noticed she was trying to lift out a wheelchair.