‘Say, how about we eat out?’ Bridge suggested, her strong accent turning all the ‘ows’ into ‘ighs’, and Carly noticed Pax looked politely baffled.

‘Norn Irish for “how about we eat out”,’ she translated helpfully.

‘I heard what she said,’ Pax pointed out in her deep, over-kind voice, ‘I just was wondering where?’

Carly felt squashed.

‘They’re wassailing in the old orchard at dusk,’ Bridge was explaining. ‘There’s always loads of bacon sarnies and mulled cider on offer. Why don’t we all go after you show us round here? Your lot’ll be there, won’t they, Carl?’

‘If it’s not raining.’ Carly shrugged, still smarting at being corrected. The Turners were big on wassailing, a tradition of blessing the cider apple trees each new year. She’d never understood the appeal and the cider punch was always lethal.

‘They still do the wassail?’ Pax was wide-eyed. ‘I thought that stopped years ago. It used to lead to anarchy.’

‘Sure, it’s now a fun village tradition, very family friendly with a big bonfire and buckets of grog,’ Bridge laughed. ‘Everyone gets rat-arsed on cider, but they do a Health and Safety assessment first so it’s all good. Shall we go?’

‘I’m not sure it’s—’ Pax started.

‘Course we will!’ Bridge had already made the decision. ‘Hear that, Carl? We’re having a hooley! Did I not say this woman’s one of us?’

Carly caught Pax’s eye and knew for certain she wasn’t.

Calling her son with the weird name back, Pax turned to look across the yard and then her face developed a fixed expression. Following her gaze, Carly watched Luca O’Brien stride up, all leather boots and smiles, black Puffa over a green farmer’s overall. Eyes bright as nocellara olives, he looked a million times better than the exhausted traveller she’d met on New Year’s Day.

‘Carly, how are ya?’ The deep Irish accent was double cream in contrast to Bridge’s sharp lemon Belfast lilt. He handed over his number on a piece of paper. ‘Best to text on that number with the bad signal here. It’s this coming weekend you’re starting, yeah?’

‘I can do seven till midday. This is my friend Bridge.’ She made sure she got her manners right this time.

‘How’re you doin’?’ He nodded at Bridge and the children, his smile disarming.

‘Better for meeting you.’ Bridge gave him comedy lash-bats over her glasses. ‘How are you settling in?’

‘Sure, it’s a pretty place.’

‘Come wassailing later. We’re all going. Beezer cheap cider.’

He looked to Pax, Carly noticed. Was he seeking permission?

Arms tightly crossed, Pax flashed her big hazel eyes back at him. He shrugged, still smiling. ‘I might. I’ve the yard to finish, mind.’

‘Carly’s going to help you,’ Bridge said brightly. ‘Work experience.’

Carly gaped at her.

‘We’ll look after all the kids, won’t we, Pax?’

Pax was gaping at Bridge too now.

Carly heaved Jackson from his harness. ‘This one’s nappy needs changing first, but if you’d like to do it, Bridge…?’ She held him out.