The phone rang. It was a woman from Edinburgh, from a women’s group, saying, Thank you for the important email invitation, and, Of course they would love to accept, and, Yes, the time had come, and, Did they have any dates in mind, and, But of course, they were ready to be actioned whenever the moment came. The phone calls continued all that evening and into the next day. Some of the women said they’d called before. The ones who’d called during the memorial service, and had got the daughters-in-law, had had the phone put down on them. (Women with accents they didn’t recognise and didn’t respect.) Others had been calling while the house was closed. Now that it was open again, the phone never stopped ringing. From the grave – or so it seemed – Eva had called up her people.

Zoe was sitting in the kitchen at Harcourt, munching toast, when two texts came in on her phone at once. She read the one from Camille first. Come and see us. We are waiting for you. The other was from Tara. Meet harbour bus stop @8. Party clothes.

She texted back: Ravi too?

Tara: Ravishing in a dress.

When Zoe and Ravi reached the harbour it was already deserted. They’d considered a clothes swap but since what Zoe wore wasn’t dressy enough, for Ravi, she’d rung up Pauline, who lived in Ayrness, and borrowed her mother’s 1960s kaftan for him. It was in the kids’ dressing-up box anyway. This is Raymond, she told Pauline; she wanted to be kind. And now, she said, once he was in the kaftan, which had blue and silver stripes, This is Ravi. I need some eyeliner, Ravi said; and Pauline did it for him.

They waited at the bus stop, holding hands shyly (at least all of the passers-by undoubtedly knew who she was and were bound to tell on her to Ruth), and didn’t hear the small car pull up. It honked; a door opened and Tara stepped out. She enfolded Zoe in a giant hug; Zoe smelt sandalwood and oranges and coffee. ‘Where are we going?’ Zoe asked.

‘You’ll see,’ called Stella, who was sitting in the front, wrapped up in a gigantic green and blue tartan blanket, and smelling, as usual, kind of smoky. She was wearing bright pink lipstick which shimmered on her face like a diesel rainbow in the harbour. ‘I’ve brought you a warm coat. Happy winter solstice, both. Get in the back.’