Look at what she’d done so far that day, though: gone to the supermarket, filled in the newspaper crossword, eaten a boiled egg for lunch while listening to a dreary Radio 4 phone-in about pensions. On her holiday as well. The devil makes work for idle hands, her mum had been fond of warning, and Maggie was starting to think she might be better off – at least better entertained – considering the devil’s options instead.

Just then, though, she almost jumped out of her skin when she heard a ferocious banging at the front door. ‘Is anyone there? Hello?’ came an urgent voice.

Well, it didn’t sound like the devil, was her first ridiculous thought, before she snapped out of her strange mood and rushed to answer it, wiping her hands on her trousers. Wait – what if it was Amelia, tearful and heartbroken, having hitched all the way back to Falmouth? Maggie’s mind was instantly teeming with panicky possibilities. If Will had upset her, after all this, if Will had dared make Amelia feel small or insignificant or stupid, she would wring his rotten neck with her own hands. She would kill him!

She yanked the door open, only to see the woman from the cottage next door standing outside, looking agitated. ‘You haven’t seen Izzie, have you? My daughter. She’s not off with your girl somewhere, is she?’

The words burst forward in such a torrent, Maggie found herself blinking. ‘No,’ she replied, her heart rate decelerating. ‘Amelia’s in Devon. I . . . Is everything all right? I did see Izzie, about ten minutes ago,’ she added, remembering how she’d been dully washing up her lunch things and happened to glance out of the window. She had seen the whole family coming back a short while before that, and noticed distractedly how cross they all seemed to be with one another. Then out had come the older girl on her own, hooking a leg over a bicycle and pedalling furiously away, shoulders hunched low for speed. No helmet, Maggie had thought in disapproval. ‘She went off on her bike,’ she said.

The woman – Em, was it? Emma? – sagged on the doorstep. ‘Okay, thanks. Did you see which way she went? Anything else at all?’

‘Sorry, no,’ Maggie said, trying and failing to dredge up further details. ‘Can I help?’ she asked in the next moment. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘I don’t suppose you—’ Then Em broke off, her mouth buckling as if she were about to burst into tears. ‘No, don’t worry about it. Thank you.’

‘Honestly, ask me,’ Maggie urged. At heart she was still a Girl Guide, wanting to do good whenever possible, wanting to please others. ‘Amelia’s not here, I’ve got no plans whatsoever – if there’s anything I can do, just say it. You’ll save me from cleaning the cooker.’