She nods her head towards the conservatory. “In there. Ted left her gardening shoes by the door and left the door open. Poor little thing must have crawled in.”

“Charlie can sort that one out.”

“Yes, bless him. He’s so patient.”

I laugh. “Is that a subtle dig?”

She grins, her thin face alight with warmth. “Nothing subtle about it, darling. You’re about as patient as Gordon Ramsay. Unfortunately, you don’t have his cooking abilities.”

I head over to the kettle and switch it on. “Want one?” I ask.

She nods. “Are you thirsty, sweetie?”

“Not for tea,” I say grimly. “However, if it was whisky inside the kettle I’d get to it quicker than Usain Bolt. It’s just that Charlie will need a cup after dealing with the mole.”

“That boy and his tea.”

She’s not joking. When we moved his stuff the other night, he had a whole bloody box of different teas. One for every mood that a human being could possibly have. I’d put them in my boot next to his box of herbal remedies that he swears by.

Charlie is his mother’s son, with his insistence on everything being natural and organic. I hope he doesn’t start practicing with that herbal shit on me. I’m a plain old paracetamol bloke. Unless my leg falls off, in which case I’ll go to the hospital rather than take oil-of-fucking-depressed-sea-anemone or whatever he’s got in that box.

I busy myself making tea and, when it’s done, set it on the table, gesturing to my mum to join me. There’s the sound of footsteps and my mum’s boyfriend Jim appears. She’s been seeing him for a couple of years and he moved in last month. It still feels strange to see him here in a spot that used to belong to my father, but I’m getting accustomed to it. It helps that the girls adore him, and he’s wonderful to my mum.

My dad died when I was fourteen and the girls were two. It was a huge shock. One day he was here full of life and loudness, with his penchant for proclaiming Russian poetry at the top of his voice, and the next day he was gone. Dead from a brain haemorrhage at the age of forty-two.