Roland Mantel lived a street away from Kate’s house, in a similar style of twenties semi. Its rectangle of front lawn was boxed in by trim privet hedges, the front door sky blue, slightly chipped and the windows huge clean panes of double-glazing with their chunky white frames.

It was a few moments before he came to the door. He was dressed in fawn cotton trousers with mud stains at the knee and gardening gloves clasped in one hand.

‘Anna, my dear – how lovely!’ His face lifted into a cherubic smile. ‘Called in on you yesterday, but no joy.’

‘Yes, I was – out,’ she replied vaguely, unsure how to explain her day visiting Arden.

‘I say, I do like the hair.’

‘Thank you. I wanted a change.’

Reaching up, she kissed his cheek, soft and broken-veined and familiar. ‘I’m very sorry it’s taken me so long to get round here.’ She gave a shrug, ashamed of letting the week go past since the funeral. ‘Uncle Roland, I need to talk to you.’

‘To me? I’d be honoured. I’ve missed our chats since you’ve been in Coventry. Come on through – I’ve got the kettle on. You’re in luck because I’ve got some digestives in. Can’t beat a McVitie’s, can you?’

‘I know I’ll always get fed well when I come to see you.’ Anna smiled, following Roland’s plump figure into the kitchen at the back of the house, across the hall’s worn brown carpet. The house had always been bare and functional, and kept in the methodical way of someone once in the armed forces. The only splashes of exuberance had been handed down from his parents’ house; the standard lamp in the living-room with its huge tasselled shade, a vase shaped in deep blue glass. And the tablecloth embroidered with a riot of wild flowers which was always spread on the table when they used to come for teas of crumpets and Eccles cakes – an iced bun for Anna – all produced out of white bakery bags.

In the kitchen there were still the old wooden cupboards with blue handles which Anna knew she had run to pull open and explore when he had first moved in, some time within the memory of her childhood. He had a red and white sixties cooker with metal racks beside the grill for warming plates, an ancient Russell Hobbs kettle and a cupboard full of mismatched crockery. Coming back here after this long gap, Anna saw now only the simplicity of the house. He could have had so much more, but chose not to.

The sun was slanting through the french windows, etching a rectangle on the grey lino. Roland’s cat, black and white and very hairy, was spread across its bright heat.

‘Hello Maisie, old lady.’ Anna squatted down and ran her hand across the inert body which just raised the energy to give a half-hearted purr.

Roland was fishing teaspoons out of a drawer, frowning with concentration. ‘Yes, I suppose she’ll be leaving me soon too.’