There were stories attached to the well. My father delighted in telling me that gold lay in its dark, unfathomable depths, along with diamond rings, priceless art and, most hauntingly to the younger me, sacrificial teddy bears. The well would grant you absolute truth on a matter of your asking in return for something you held dear. When my brother, Paul, took over these stories (the gift of the gab bypassing me, the older child, and travelling down the male line), they became more sinister. There were ancient bones down there, he told me, and some not so ancient as you’d expect. There were the remains of prized cattle too, beloved wives and – he knew when to hold a pause – the bodies of favourite children.

I understood his inference, the moral of this parable.

‘I’m not the favourite,’ I snapped back.

‘Yes, you are,’ he replied levelly, no invitation to argue; he was stating a fact. ‘Mum and Dad are making sure everything works out all right for you.’

He was ten then. I’d have been sixteen.

I leaned over the well’s edge and peered down into the dripping dark. With my adult eyes, I still expected to see the flash of gold or a white splinter of bone. I wondered what I could throw into the depths so that I might know the absolute truth about Ben, about his relationship with the Eldest Girls. Had I been right, I would ask, to cut him off, not to let him explain? But that would mean admitting that I still held him dear, despite all efforts not to. Would I have to throw Ben to his death, only to discover his innocence?

The last stretch of the journey to my parents’ house was a steep incline, scented by the zest of pine needles, sycamore keys pirouetting around me. In books, adults returning to a childhood home after many years become overwhelmed by great Proustian rushes of emotion at the things they see and smell and hear, faded memories leaping vividly alive. It occurred to me then, as if I had just thrown something precious into the well to receive this realisation, that I would never really know how that felt. Not the true extent. I would never experience the way a long absence can remould a place, make it warmer, kinder, more palatable.

I passed through the front gate and walked down the side of the lodge to my parents’ back door, bracing myself for my mother’s greeting.

The tone of it came as expected: ‘Oh, here she is, gracing us with her presence! I swear, Leah Cedars, that you are worse than a flea to catch.’