Sienna shrieked with joy. Jackson bawled, cleaving back to his grandmother and Twirlywoos.

Nan had her ice pack and peppermint oil out, a sure sign that she had one of her migraines.

‘Thanks a million for minding them.’ Carly ignored the phone ringing in her back pocket. ‘You still okay for tomorrow, Nan? Janine wants me double shifts again.’

Ash’s mother was a meek little character who rarely looked anyone over the age of ten in the eye, but she gave Carly the full benefit of her rare, unexpectedly heart-melting brown gaze, lashes still long as a Jersey cow, pain riven through their dark centres. ‘You’re a good girl, you are, Carly.’

‘Thanks.’

‘My Ash is lucky to have you.’

‘Thanks.’

Nan Turner always made Carly feel awkward. The kids adored her, but there was a tragic air about her that Carly felt deep in her bones.

She’d been duskily pretty once, from a big fairground family, a tiny Edith Piaf of the candyfloss stall. Unlikely framed photographs of her in a pinny with big eighties hair scattered the house. Long held prisoner by her agoraphobia and passivity, she reminded Carly of a zoo animal who no longer has an ounce of fight left. She had a quiet fear that Ash would become like that one day if the nightmares and boozing kept him hostage long enough.

‘His dad is a bad lot, you know.’ It was one of Nan’s stock phrases, along with ‘Wipe your Feet’ and ‘Your face will stay like that if the wind changes’.

‘Ash is nothing like Nat.’ His dad remained an inveterate traveller rogue, sweet-talking his way along old gypsy routes in a traditional wagon, with a girlfriend half his age following in the rusty transit van crammed with carved mushrooms, fenced goods and lurchers.

‘You make sure he stays that way, yes?’ Nan urged, looking tearful. ‘I always knew when Ash was being bad as a nipper. I felt it here.’ She patted her temples and winced.

‘Don’t worry, I’m on it.’ Carly rubbed her fingertips against her own sweaty palms, stupidly hot again, even though she knew that the old bird was just being overdramatic. Nan watched a lot of soaps.

She sprinted back out with the kids strapped in the double buggy, wishing she had time to call on Bridge and check she was okay after the weird texts, but she was already running late. Powering back to Upper Bagot Farmhouse by lane along Plum Run to avoid the buggy getting stuck, wind slapping her face like an angry handbag, she took the call that had been buzzing against her bum for the last ten minutes. It was Ash, shouting over his rumbling truck engine.

‘Your friend looked a bit like the kid in The Exorcist after a crucifix face-slash session, but she’ll live! Might even get that job.’

‘You checked on her!’ she cried gratefully. ‘Was Aleš there?’

‘She fell off her horse!’

Carly felt an idiot. When Petra had said Bridge had come to blows with the love of her life, she hadn’t thought of Craic for a minute. ‘So why did she call Skully?’