Irene, I knew, still came once a week, but Irene, or Mrs Tully, as I still called her, had been coming since Helena and I were children, and was only marginally younger than my parents. Mum had tried to retire her once, but her eyes had filled up and so had Mum’s, and so still she came. She hoovered a bit in the middle of the rooms, washed the kitchen floor, again, in the middle, flicked a duster around, but mostly she and Mum sat at the kitchen table and gossiped. Mum loved to hear about what was going on in the village and Irene didn’t hold back. Dad, meanwhile, had a very comfortable morning reading all the newspapers in the study where Irene was never allowed on account of her moving things around – about twenty years ago, when she could. It was win-win all round, except, of course, the house was filthy.

As I poked around now, flinching at yet another dead mouse and trail of droppings behind a sofa, so rank even Hector wasn’t interested, I realized that a mammoth task lay ahead of me. And this was merely what was visible. What lurked beneath was unimaginable. For now, however, I confined myself to the kitchen, which had almost made me gag as I’d cooked in it earlier, opening drawers stiff with grease, having to wash every utensil before I used it. I had to deal with that right now if I was even going to make another cup of tea in there. I found an apron in a drawer, and a duster, which I tied over my hair, knowing from last night that I might not wash my hair until I’d thoroughly cleaned the bathroom, and set to work. I was up a step ladder, deep in a revolting corner of the ceiling, flicking spiders and cobwebs down, when there was a rap on the back door.

‘Come in!’ I yelled, above Hector barking, knowing Danny was due to collect a final cheque for the time he’d spent stewing tea and beans in the cottage. It was sitting on the side. Nothing happened, so I yelled ‘Come in’ again, irritated. With a sigh I started to dismount my ladder, shouting for Hector to shut up, when the back door opened.

A tall, slim man, with blondish greying hair, an outdoors complexion and pale blue eyes appeared in the doorway. I stopped, mid-descent.

‘Oh. Sorry to yell. I thought you were Danny.’

‘Dan.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’m Dan De Courcy.’

‘Oh, right.’ A bell rang somewhere: something to do with Helena.

‘Don’t tell me they’ve finally replaced Irene?’

‘What? Oh – no.’ I whipped the yellow duster from my head and glanced down at my pinny. ‘No, I’m Lucy. Their daughter.’

‘Oh yes. Of course.’ He blinked. ‘Gosh, I didn’t recognize you. But it’s probably been about a hundred years since I last saw you.’