Although the waters – rain, river, run-off, drains, puddles – had dropped back to their normal levels, the after-effects of the flood’s rampage through the countryside were taking longer to disappear. The flood crisis centre in Much Larton village hall still opened its doors at nine in the morning so residents could access help with insurance claims, or register with the volunteer clean-up squad, or just sit with a warm drink and a sympathetic ear. When Tara dropped in on her way to work at half past eight, there were already several people waiting outside. They looked exhausted, in mismatched, borrowed clothes.

Tara had brought another selection of Ruth’s wardrobe for the emergency clothing bank. She hadn’t even hauled the bags out of the car boot when an older lady hurried over and started bombarding her with questions.

‘Tara, love, I need to talk to you about Muffin. I’m so worried about her. Her fur’s falling out with stress.’

‘Mrs Williams, I’m only trained to deal with human stress. And I’m not staying, I’m just dropping some clothes off.’ Tara started walking; she had her first appointment in half an hour back in town. ‘Have you seen the vet? He’s got a box of pheromone diffusers – that might help?’

‘Oh, I hope so. Poor Muffin’s having nightmares, keeps hiding whenever it rains.’ Helen Williams had lost the entire contents of her cellar and ground floor – family photos, furniture, a Steinway piano that had been in her family for generations – but the only thing she cared about was her three-legged cat. ‘And have you heard? Joan Cartwright’s Bobby still hasn’t come home …’

Tara shouldered the big door to the hall. ‘Let me see what I can do.’

Inside, school exam tables and chairs were set out in discreet clumps, with food boxes stacked up along the stage. Tara’s counselling area – with softer chairs, privacy screens and tissues donated by the local chemist – was in the far corner, away from the representatives from the council, Citizens Advice, the police, animal rescue, GP surgeries, and a hastily assembled squad of volunteer tradesmen who were trying to make houses safe until proper renovation work could start. Until a few days ago, there had been a soldier from the Royal Engineers, who’d been coordinating temporary structural repairs. He didn’t have much advice to offer but the solid presence of nice Jonny in his army uniform seemed to raise spirits, particularly among the ladies running the soup kitchen.

As she walked in, Tara caught sight of a familiar figure sorting tins into plastic bags: a broad fabric collage of scarves and drapery, topped off with a gold headwrap from which a few silver-red-blonde corkscrew curls were escaping.

‘Diane! I’ve got something for you!’