We spent the afternoon cleaning and sorting what we could. I filled both our bins to the brim, avoiding touching Leanne’s meagre possessions apart from when it meant clearing a path through the mess, and asking Joan to fetch her mum’s dirty washing so I didn’t have to go into her bedroom. We scrubbed the kitchen and bathroom, Joan’s little face scrunched with effort as she scoured the sinks and cupboard doors, Nesbit wagging his tail beside her. I lugged my vacuum cleaner around and we dusted the chipped, wonky furniture. We finished off by filling old jam jars with flowers from the garden, and placing one in each room. I also left toothpaste, soap, shampoo, toilet paper and sanitary towels in the bathroom. Drawing the curtains and opening the windows did wonders to lift the oppressive atmosphere. By the time I had a bolognese bubbling on the one working hob, a pan of spaghetti at the ready, the house almost resembled a home again.

I couldn’t decide whether to wait for Leanne to come home or not. Would she handle the invasion better if I wasn’t there to witness her response? In the end, Joan asked me to go. She may have predicted her mother’s struggle between pride and gratitude, and wanted to avoid me making clumsy comments that would make her feel worse.

I sat and tried to force down my own plate of pasta, ears straining for the sound of New Cottage’s front door closing. I could imagine Ebenezer in between us, holding his breath.

It was nearly eight when she found me in the garden. I kept my head in my book, pretending I hadn’t seen her until she came to a stop in front of my chair.

Heart hammering, I looked up to see Leanne standing there, arms folded inside her thin cardigan, hair scraped into a harsh ponytail, jaw set, eyes brimming with tears.

‘What the hell?’

I swallowed back my nerves, pretended I was the type of confident, socially adept woman who knew how to befriend other women, and nodded at the chair beside me. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ The warm evening felt perfect for a glass of wine, but I was wary about offering Leanne alcohol.

She stared at me for a long, agonising minute with eyes that were sallow, sunken slits.

‘Or lemonade?’

‘Go on, then.’ She gave a dismissive shrug as though she couldn’t care less either way. It was hard not to smile in surprise, having seen Joan perform that exact gesture dozens of times.

I got up and went inside to fetch two glasses, and then a far better idea hit me. A few minutes later I found Leanne, slumped in my spare chair, arms still wrapped tightly across her gaunt body.

‘It’s this way,’ I ventured, suddenly aware that I hadn’t figured out this part of the plan.