Late Sunday morning, I left Nesbit in the safe care of Joan and Leanne, then drove to meet Aunty Linda at the Buttonhole, which was closed on Sundays apart from occasional events such as a Crafternoon Tea or a guest workshop. After enfolding me in a much-needed hug, she started getting things ready while I made us each a drink. It would take me a good few hours to run up curtains for the bedroom and office, along with cushions in various complementary designs. Linda would be offering her expert advice and adding extra touches to the cushions like buttons, some hand embroidery and tiny felt decorations.

I filled her in on life in Bigley while we worked, and she updated me on the latest goings-on in the shop and with my cousins, who both lived in London. She was relieved and optimistic about Mum agreeing to revive her quilting course.

‘Honestly, Ollie, I think you moving out is the best thing that ever happened to her. It’s like now the worst thing has happened, she’s free from worrying about it any more. She misses you, of course, and is confused and angry, but we’ve somehow managed to convert it into a catalyst to get her enjoying things again instead of using it as an excuse to wallow. Not that she didn’t enjoy you being around, of course.’ She paused to deftly thread the tiniest of needles with gold embroidery silk. ‘But you know that subconsciously she was always playing the helpless victim to ensure you didn’t leave. She could never be too happy, in case you spotted that she didn’t need you any more.’

‘Is she really angry?’ I asked, apprehension jittering about in my stomach.

Linda looked at me. ‘I haven’t the foggiest.’

Just before six, the final cushion was zipped and plumped and loaded along with the curtains into my car, hiding in the small parking space behind the shop.

I took a shuddering breath, nodded to Linda and she made the call.

Seven minutes later, my mother burst through the Buttonhole door.

‘Ollie?’ she said, chest heaving, eyes wild until they spotted me. ‘I was halfway through my tomato and broccoli quiche.’

I could see the crumbs still sticking to her jumper.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I offered, not getting up from my seat near the back corridor that led out to my car.

‘Well, what is this? Am I allowed to give you a hug?’

After a short, stiff squeeze, I backed away and gestured to a seat.

‘Here we go.’ Linda placed a pot of tea and three slices of flapjack on the table between us.

‘Have you been speaking to Linda?’ Mum asked, her face brittle with hurt. ‘Meeting up? Is that how it is? She gets special treatment and I’m discarded like a used tissue?’