Diane’s expression softened. ‘You remember your dad, Tara. The man you wanted him to be. But I remember someone who only ever put himself first. Someone who hurt other people. I don’t want to let him hurt you again.’ She paused. ‘Your mum would say the same, if she was here.’

‘But how well did you know him, Diane? You only know what Mum told you. People are different in a marriage. Maybe he’s changed. People do change.’

‘Ruth told me things about your dad, things I can’t easily forget.’ Diane fidgeted with her glasses. ‘Listen, Tara, I’ve met a lot of men like Keith over the years. They like to think they’re maverick one-offs. It’s usually one of the first things they tell you, how unique they are, what mould-breakers. But the sad truth is, they’re all exactly the bloody same. Exactly the bloody same. And leopards do not change their spots.’

Tara ignored the fact that ‘maverick’ and ‘one-off’ was also how Phil had described himself on their first date. Twice.

‘Well, maybe doing what I do,’ she retorted, ‘I want to believe in the power of people to make changes. Maybe he’s waited until now out of respect for Mum.’

‘Tara …’

She lifted her chin. ‘And I hope I’m big enough not to put my own feelings ahead of everyone who uses that hall.’

‘Oh, by all means let Keith do his generous charity thing. Make sure he delivers everything on that score. You just don’t have to let him into your life.’ Diane looked at her shrewdly. ‘Tell him to come and do an inspection, send his plans, get the hall rebuilt. And he can stay in a hotel, in Birmingham. Deal with Alice. Not you. See what he says then.’

‘I will.’ Tara realized that she’d gone from being very uncertain at the start of the conversation to having her mind made up for her. ‘I’ll call him first thing in the morning and tell him exactly that. Thanks, Diane.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Tara had another bad night’s sleep. This time she was back at Brownies, Branston anxiously trailing her round Troutbridge Memorial Hall as the dark waters of the River Martle crept steadily over Brown Owl’s knee socks, floating the battered papier-mâché toadstool that she’d completely forgotten about until it bobbed past the also forgotten form of Karen Lord, Pixie Sixer. Everyone was ignoring Tara’s increasingly urgent attempts to evacuate the hall before the tree fell, and she’d woken feeling more exhausted than when she’d gone to bed.

Morning weariness wasn’t unusual – even before the flooding, Tara’s mind tended to knead relentlessly at the day’s problems long after her body had switched off – but her first thought on waking was the reason for her queasy nocturnal joyride through childhood memories: Keith.