Hot tears blurred Tara’s eyes, and she felt a longing so painful it seemed to rip her heart through her whole body.

And then Sybil streaked across the garden like a smear of darkness, and the dog’s head jerked up, and he started barking. Sybil – a very real Sybil – had already clattered through the cat flap in the back door by the time the dog made a paltry attempt to go after her, but in jumping up, he spotted Tara in the kitchen and started barking with a more focused effort.

As the dog bounced up, the girl dropped her book with a yelp, and turned to see Tara too.

They stared at each other in mutual shock.

It wasn’t a ghost of herself, but a girl who looked a lot like she had done at that age. Same wide mouth, same freckles on the same milky skin turned a painful pink by too much sun. The same thick hair and the same long, skinny limbs Tara had had, until puberty struck and her hair was cut in a fury of ‘no more plaits’ and the limbs rounded out and everything else caught up in a rush. Her eyes were very different, though. Not dark and expressive like Tara’s – or rather, Keith’s. They were big and round and pale blue. And anxious.

Tara put her hand over her heart. It was hammering so hard in her chest she wondered if she was having some kind of cardiac episode.

The girl’s big eyes stretched with anxiety and she looked around, hugging herself, not seeing whoever she was hoping to see. But she didn’t try to run away.

Tara struggled for an answer other than the very obvious. Could it possibly be one of the Bannon kids, booted out of their latest accommodation? Or some other flooded-out local child? Had Alice tried to get hold of her in an emergency, and left the child in the back garden? No. There was no way Alice would do that. And she was clutching at straws, in any case.

The girl was looking around her more urgently, on the verge of tears.

Tara was the adult here. She had to deal with this.

With a deep breath Tara walked across the kitchen, opened the bifold doors and strode over the grass, trying to look friendly. The dog was bouncing around her, and the girl shouted, ‘Lloyd! Lloyd! Lloydie!’ but he ignored her, making a beeline for Tara.

‘I must smell of cats.’ Tara crouched down and let the dog sniff her hands. He was like Branston, but not Branny. Same yellow velvet coat but a flatter head, a fluffier tail. ‘This is Lloyd?’

‘Yes,’ said the girl.

The dog wagged its tail, amiably. He wasn’t much of a guard dog.

‘Hello, Lloyd. Nice to meet you. And what are you called?’