They hurried to catch up the other two who had stopped to wait near the bottom of the drive, deep in conversation.

Luca gave Pax a curious look, but she looked away, uncomfortable under scrutiny. He probably thought they’d been swigging WKD Blue stashed in the nappy changing bag.

‘Don’t let me drink more than a couple,’ Bridge was saying as they set off again, closing in on the antiquated racket coming from the orchard. ‘The first year we moved here, after they’d sung the wassailing bit, Aleš thought it was folk free-for-all and started on a load of traditional Polish songs. Couldn’t shut him up. My man can drink, but that cider’s a killer. I was hallucinating for days.’

Her machine-gun delivery helped Pax, covering fire for her shell shock. Round and round the carousel spun. Her father and Lester. It had to be a bad dream.

Keep thinking about something else. Don’t think about it.

When they arrived in the orchard, the woolly hatted half dozen gathered there grumbled that nobody knew what was happening. The bonfire was smoking like a Korean factory, the wassailers hadn’t arrived and the temperature was plummeting fast as the last strains of light faded in the sky, the few remaining clouds clearing away to herald a frost.

‘Where are the bacon butties?’ Bridge demanded hysterically. ‘The drink?’ She cocked her head back at the others. ‘Badly organised as usual. Thank God I have Yoyo bars.’ She delved in her handbag.

Taking in the scene, Pax realised her distorted childhood memories had fooled her, the streaked winter sunset, ribboned apple trees and small children less rose-tinted in real life. Tattered summer fête bunting had been strung loosely between branches, fading fairy lights flickered on dwindling battery power. One of the village faithful had revved up an old kettle barbecue, on top of which rashers of bacon lay autopsy-flaccid alongside a great cauldron of tepid spiced cider. On the two memorial benches, a hotchpotch scratch band was being led by the rapturous hurdy-gurdy devotee who was turning the handle on his wheezing, twanging discord accompanied by two of the primary school’s Year Sixes on recorders, a long-haired teenager on a guitar and an over-enthusiastic Auriol Bullock on an Irish bodhran.

‘Jeez, it’s worse than fecking ever,’ Bridge hissed. ‘Sorry, Luca. It’s not exactly the Fleadh.’

His phone was ringing again. He swiped left without even glancing at the screen.

‘Can you not turn that thing to silent if you don’t want to talk to her?’ She tilted her head to take in the medieval music. ‘On second thoughts, keep it on. It sounds better than this.’

‘If one of them played in tune it would be a start.’ He looked around uneasily.

Pax wondered if the calls were from his ex in Canada, uncomfortable with how bothered the thought made her.

‘We can always try to borrow you a violin,’ she said without thinking.

‘Don’t tell me you play the fiddle?’ Bridge was impressed.