He laughs through his nose. ‘The most important thing to ask yourself is why you might be revisiting these particular moments. Perhaps after experiencing them a second time you might feel differently about them. Or perhaps you won’t.’

‘But … will I get back to the present at some point?’

He opens his mouth to answer this, but a voice rings out behind us.

‘Excuse me?’

I turn around to see three old ladies smiling at us. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ one of them says. ‘We were after a few chestnuts.’

The watch-seller claps his hands and grins at them. ‘Finally! Some paying customers.’ He looks back at me. ‘You’d better be on your way.’

‘But … hang on,’ I stammer. ‘I need to know—’

He cuts me off by raising his hand and checking his own watch. His eyebrows leap up into his scruffy hair. ‘It’s getting on a bit. Time to head back to your mother’s.’

‘What?’ I ask, confused.

He looks me straight in the eyes, suddenly deadly serious. ‘Trust me. Time to go. I know you have more questions, but don’t worry, you’ll see me again. I guarantee it.’ He turns back to the women, smiling again. ‘Now, ladies. Will it be three bags of chestnuts, then?’

‘I do like your tie,’ one of them says, and the watch-seller gives me a what-did-I-tell-you smirk.

I turn and start walking, feeling possibly more confused than I did before. I am still no clearer as to what is happening, or why. But something about the firmness in the old man’s voice when he said ‘Time to go’ keeps me moving forward. I glance back over my shoulder, half expecting him to have disappeared, but he’s still there, nattering away cheerfully with the old ladies.

It’s only when I get back into the house that I remember why I left in the first place: mustard. I take my coat off and hang it on the banister. It’s only me who likes the stuff anyway; I’ll just tell Mum that I’m fine with gravy.

I walk back towards the kitchen, still feeling so dazed that it’s like I’m on autopilot. The door is half open, and I can hear Mum and Daphne chatting away over the rattle of pans and the thwack of the knife on the chopping board.

‘My sister is the worst,’ Daphne is saying. ‘All the Christmas presents she buys us are just presents for herself. Last year, she got into Wicca …’

‘What, as in basket weaving?’ Mum asks.

Daphne giggles. ‘No, I wish. A basket would’ve been quite nice. I mean Wicca with two c’s. As in witchcraft.’

‘Gosh. Right. How interesting,’ Mum says, giggling now too.