The morning passed quickly. The estate workers were a cheerful bunch in their dark green sweatshirts, scraping, sweeping, cleaning and carrying. One with his arms full of ripped plastic wrapping that had once packaged building materials said to Hannah, ‘Lazy bleeders. I was a builder for years and I never left a site like this.’

Christopher would definitely not appreciate Hannah sharing the fact that the builders had marched off the site when payments got behind so she laughed it off, pretending to shiver. ‘Not even a dusting of frost can make empty bags look better.’

On Monday, the sign could be erected. From the middle of next week Hannah could pretty much leave the traders to stock their units, keeping an eye out for anyone who looked as if they might not be up and running by the nineteenth. She could turn her attention to the Christmas Opening.

It was after one when she managed to get away, whizzing along windswept Fen Drove, talking to the garden centre at Bettsbrough on her phone, getting their best price on six planted-up flower tubs and planning to add tinsel and lights.

She entered the village, enjoying the way lights and Christmas trees were decking the familiar stone cottages with festive bling. A large cotton-wool snowman had popped up to guard the school gates, his woolly hat and scarf in the school colours of plum and black. The school made her think of Josie, and Nico’s family turning up in Middledip … without Loren. Was Loren about to join them? Hannah had waited for Nico to mention her. He hadn’t, but then Loren had phoned him last night.

After parking the car she breezed into Nan’s kitchen, rubbing her hands. ‘Brr! That wind’s arctic. I think my nose has frostbite. Fancy chicken soup for lunch? We’ve got some tiger bread left.’ She halted. ‘Ooh. Someone got a present?’

On the table, a gold-painted basket cradled a pyramid of fruit, elegantly decorated with Christmassy red silk poinsettia bracts and gold ribbon. Nan assumed an air of unconcern. ‘Brett again.’

Hannah hung up her coat and took the soup from the cupboard, observing Nan from the corner of her eye. ‘He’s trying hard, isn’t he?’

Nan shrugged one shoulder, the one on the opposite side to the plaster cast. Hannah wished she’d thaw towards poor old Brett. They’d been good together and a ninety-year-old lady might not have masses of time in which to play hard to get, sad as it made Hannah feel to think it.

‘Those grapes look lovely,’ she tried tentatively.

‘Probably full of pips,’ Nan retorted. But then she grinned, her wrinkles making concertinas at the sides of her face, and blushed.