The days in London had passed so slowly. They’d talked about the treehouse for the entire train journey home, then ran into the house from the taxi, jumping with excitement to climb up into its leafy frame, only to find Dad asleep on the sofa, smelling of whisky, Branston lying unwalked next to him, tell-tale crisp flakes sticking to his muzzle.

Her mum had said, ‘Oh dear, I don’t think Daddy’s feeling well,’ in such a calm voice Tara felt it in the pit of her stomach like a knot.

Back in the meeting room, twenty-five years later, Tara felt that knot of anxiety twist in her stomach again. It had taken a long time to live down the treehouse debacle. Jodi Richardson had been particularly cruel.

Dad wouldn’t do that again, though, would he? This was so public. He was accountable. And it wasn’t for her, it was for the community.

But still she could see Mum’s face in the back of her mind; saying nothing, implying everything with one slow shake of her head. She’d done her best to manage Tara’s expectations when it came to her dad, especially after he left. I just hate to see him hurt you, Tara.

Tara looked up at the committee but they were talking amongst themselves, discussing options for the hall. Every single person looked more cheerful than they had done five minutes earlier. Brighter, as if Keith’s spontaneous generosity had flicked on a light bulb inside them.

The treehouse was twenty-five years ago, Tara reminded herself. And Dad’s not doing this himself. He’ll send a team. They won’t get pissed and forget. They’re professionals. And there’s social media these days. You can’t mess anything up in private any more.

‘I think that’s a terrific offer.’ Louise Hopkins looked round the room for agreement. ‘I find it incredibly heartening that people who don’t even live here have seen what we’ve been through and feel moved to help.’

‘What’s in it for this company, though? Publicity? Tax write-off?’ Peter Headley’s irritating pen-clicking increased in volume. ‘I’ve never met a builder who’d do something for nothing.’

‘He’s not a builder, Peter. This man I spoke to is an architect. And he told me he has happy memories of Troutbridge Memorial Hall.’ Alice consulted her notes and delivered the final blow. ‘He says he took his daughter to Brownies there. So there’s a personal angle. I think that’s lovely.’

Tara opened her mouth to correct Alice: Dad had never taken her to Brownies. Mum had driven her there straight from work, still in her good coat, with Branston slobbering in the back, ever eager for an outing.

Rob Lloyd was looking at her with a raised eyebrow; she closed her mouth without saying anything. Had he made the connection? Hunter was a common enough surname.