‘She’s all right,’ he says. ‘At least she says she is. Stubborn as ever. Let’s talk about it later. We don’t want to upset the boy.’

In the living room, Dora’s sitting on the sofa, a book of word-search puzzles on her lap. To her obvious pleasure, Evan is sitting beside her, holding her hand.

Matt crosses to her and kisses her cheek. Her face is undeniably thinner, and the bones at the base of her throat are prominent.

‘How are you doing, you old attention-seeker?’ he asks. ‘You look pretty well to me.’

‘I’m all right,’ she says. ‘A bit tired. Just feeling my age, aren’t I, love?’ She squeezes Evan’s hand. ‘I’m hoping you might help me a bit with these puzzles, and I’m sorry to say your grandpa’s threatening to cook tea.’

The ghost of a smile touches Evan’s eyes and the corners of his mouth.

‘I shall make a good job of it, too,’ says Jack, mock-indignantly. ‘Sausages, chips and beans, and maybe an egg if you’re lucky. And I’m commandeering your dad to peel potatoes. Dora, my love, you’ll be ready for a cup of tea, and Evan, you’ll be wanting something cold. But you stay where you are and look after your grandma. I’ll get your dad to bring it through.’

Outside the open kitchen window, the perfume of the honeysuckle which clings to the old stone wall mingles with the smell of straw from the barn, and the sharp, familiar stink of sheep. The window looks on to the rose garden, where Dora planted the first bushes just after Matt was born. Over the years, she’s nurtured it to an immaculately cared-for Eden, and Matt’s troubled to see some of the blooms have browning petals, while others are dead and dried. On the path, the secateurs lying in a trug are spotted with the beginnings of rust.

Matt pops the cap off a bottle of Sam Smith’s.

‘You want one?’

He takes another from the fridge, and hands it to his father. A red kite is wheeling over Blackmire Ridge, in a sky that’s still bright as midday.

‘So,’ says Matt. ‘Tell me.’

Jack takes a drink of his beer.

‘It’s been a bad week,’ he says. ‘Here, start on these potatoes. I blame myself for letting it get this far.’

Matt hunts for a peeler in the drawer, which is a confusion of his mother’s lifetime collection of cooking implements: knives and graters, wooden spoons, spatulas and whisks.

‘What do you mean, “this far”? What’s the story?’