But there was something up with the boy, they could see that. He hadn’t been right for a while. Sometimes, when you spoke to him, it took him ages to answer, as if he was on an overseas phone call with a time delay. His hands were shaky, in the mornings. He was moody. Well, not nasty-moody: Stephen was never sarky or mean, but he wasn’t his usual smiling self. It was as if he had a lot on his mind. They didn’t know if there was a girl involved. That might be it. Usually he was happy to play with his little sisters before tea in the evenings, but lately he’d shut himself in his room and when they called out to him to join them, he’d answer through the closed door: ‘Maybe, in a while.’ But the while hardly ever came.

When he’d suggested the trip it was the most animated they’d seen him for months. That swayed them, much as they thought completing his studies should be the priority. And at least he didn’t have any commitments: no mortgage, no regular job, no kids. There might never be another chance, and travel was supposed to broaden the mind, wasn’t it? Maybe he’d take a different direction when he got back, go into engineering like his dad had wanted him to.

It was great that he had a place to be for the summer. Stephen had stayed in youth hostels in London and Edinburgh for the past few weeks, and with an old colleague of his father’s near Birmingham. It’d be nice to be with a family now.

‘Cass is at home, but Georgie won’t be back until the weekend,’ said Nick.

‘Ah, right,’ said Stephen. Right sounded like riot.

‘Break you in slowly!’ said Nick. ‘Cass’ll behave herself, if it’s just her; whereas they egg each other on.’ They turned off the road and began to proceed up a narrow winding lane. ‘There’s us, look,’ said Nick.

Stephen glanced up and saw a large, square stone house, nestled into the side of the hill. It sat as naturally against the green as a baby in the crook of an arm. There were a great many windows, glinting silvery grey, their glass dissected by narrow glazing bars. Behind the house were low stone buildings and above these, orchards of old gnarly trees rose up towards the summit.

The lane curled and rose before they came to a standstill in the yard at the back of the house. As soon as Stephen opened the car door, a fowl rushed at his ankles. The bird was the shape of a rugby ball, but two or three times the size, with a red bald head and cheeks of the brightest, swimming-pool blue. Its legs were like blackened twigs.

‘Christ!’ Stephen looked terrified. ‘It’s a bloody vulture!’