She could see it ahead of her, surrounded by the spindly and wind-blown trees they had planted when they first lived there, to give the house some shelter. The track ran parallel to the road, which followed the edge of the lake. It climbed gently. At one time all this had been Back Rigg land but she no longer farmed it herself. When Fred had died she had handed it back to the estate. The lambs on the fell were fat and healthy and she felt momentarily jealous of the farmer to whom the land had been leased. She missed the ritual of dipping and clipping and sending to market. Still, she thought, as she pulled up in the farmyard, she still had Lottie and Belle.

She swung open the heavy door of the Land Rover and jumped down on to the yard. It was still muddy after the winter rain. She rolled up the canvas flap at the back of the vehicle and fastened it with a webbing strap, then began to lift out the plastic carrier bags. All the time she made the soft, cooing noise that let the cats know she was there. She expected them to come racing out of the barn at the side of the house, but the place was quiet and she thought they were getting old, like her, and they were probably curled up in the kitchen next to the Aga.

To get to the kitchen she walked through the garden at the side of the house. It was overgrown and unkempt, the only colour provided by daffodils, blown almost flat by the gale of the previous week, and some spindly twigs of forsythia. In one corner there was a hen house with a corrugated iron roof and a wire mesh run where six bantams scratched and pecked.

The kitchen door was unlocked. She had never felt any need to keep the place fastened. She had nothing she would miss if it were stolen. The kitchen was at the back of the house, built into the hill, almost dark. She left open the door to let in more light. The room was old, shabby, not what people expected to find these days.