Back at her desk, Naylor puts in a call to Hagen, and reports the disappointing news that Ron appears to have come away with empty hands.

Since the last hospital visit, Ainsclough Top has become a place of much activity. There are regular visitors – palliative care nurses, carers and the local GP – interspersed with Dora’s many friends and family, some of whom she hasn’t seen for years and have travelled great distances to be here. They are welcomed with laughter, hugs and tears.

Evan might have struggled with this influx, except that most of the visitors are women, and all without exception are kind. They respect his wish not to interact with them directly, accepting his silent presence at mealtimes, since Jack has always gently insisted Evan eat downstairs at the table.

And in truth, he’s leaving behind the disquieting, almost spectral Evan who came back to them. The Evan who sits down to meals, though quiet, takes some interest in those around him, listening to conversations even if he doesn’t join them, sometimes smiling at jokes and trying to make himself useful in the fetching and carrying of the endless stream of plates and dishes, tea and cakes. If the comings and goings of people gets too much, he seeks sanctuary in the barn, where one of the feral cats that stalk the rodents there has had a litter of kittens. Evan’s found a vantage point overlooking the cosy nest the mother-cat has made in the straw, and is happy to lie quietly on the bales, observing them from above.

Claire has been spending much time at the farm too, with Matt as a regular visitor. The change of air has benefited her in some ways – a light tan has lifted the paleness from her face, and she’s put on a little weight from eating properly. With people to cook for, the effort seems worthwhile. Life might be looking brighter, except that Dora’s decline casts a shadow over them all.

On a rare afternoon when there are no visitors, Claire goes to find Evan in the barn. Seeing her approaching, he puts a finger to his lips to stop her speaking, and beckons her over to his observation point. Claire scrambles over the heavy bales, the dust of the sweet-smelling straw tickling her nose, reminding her of Sunday morning riding lessons in the days of her childhood when she was pony-mad.

She smiles at Evan, and he smiles back.

He points down to the nest.

‘Oh, aren’t they gorgeous!’ whispers Claire, and Evan finds himself regretful that he can’t talk to her about the kittens. He wants to tell her the names he’s given them, about when their eyes opened and about the poor, tiny one that died, how he removed it while the mother-cat was away hunting and buried it in the garden.

She asks how many there are, then answers her own question by making a count.