They stepped through a door edged with blinking fairy lights, greeted by blinding snakes of tinsel, a sparkly explosion of a Christmas tree and the easy-going hum of conversation from villagers enjoying a midweek drink. The curtains and carpet were a trendy grey that contrasted with colourful tiles in the dining area and the original, polished wood bar where more lights twinkled around the optics.

Nan chose a table distant from the big TV on the wall, near the wood-burning stove and featuring armchairs rather than stools. ‘Look at Ben Bell and that lot gawping at the TV instead of talking to each other. They might as well stay home.’ She nodded disparagingly at ‘that lot’, a group of men known as the blokey blokes: hair and beards shaved to stubble, big on beer, darts and TV sport. Nan had fostered Ben Bell when he was a ten-year-old needing shelter while his mother got away from his father, a couple of years before Hannah was born.

‘Their five pints a night each probably keeps the pub afloat.’ Hannah grinned, waving a greeting to the blokey blokes as she braved the massed fairy lights of the bar to buy drinks.

When Hannah returned with the Ruddles County she’d promised herself, Nan sniffed. ‘In my day, women didn’t drink pints.’ She sipped her wine, holding the glass daintily by the stem.

Hannah took several unrepentant swallows of the rich bitterness that was English ale. ‘It still is your day.’

Nan looked wistful. ‘It doesn’t feel like it. My day was when I was young and healthy. Middledip was smaller and everyone knew each other. People only left to go to war.’

‘Blimey!’ Hannah recoiled. ‘That’s a bit real, Nan. Wouldn’t you rather they left to go on holiday?’

Nan laughed her creaking laugh. ‘Yes, of course. I’m being nostalgic for when I was busy all day long with children. Memories glamorise even the terrible bits, I suppose.’ She paused to wave at a couple who’d come into the pub. ‘Look at that Arnott-Rattenbury boy and his wife. I never thought he’d settle down. My old friend Lucasta used to be great friends with his grandfather, if you get my drift.’

Everyone knew Ratty from the village garage and his wife Tess so Hannah, smothering a laugh at Nan’s frankness, waved too. Ratty was quite swoony, though about eight years her senior. She remembered him talking to Nico at the wedding.

‘Do you miss the foster kids?’ Hannah asked, watching Ratty and Tess join another couple at a table. ‘You must have stopped ages ago. I can barely remember it.’