Sorrel clings to her but Izzy is smiling and holding out her hand and they both leave. When they have gone, Eve gets up and leans her head against the glass. Her eyes go to the donkeys’ field like a tongue to a painful tooth. Igor has re-routed the spring and filled in the pond; the fresh soil has a brown crust like a new scar. Everything in the landscape is dull brown: tan branches, brick-coloured earth and heavy beige clouds. Leaves lie on the ground in sodden russet layers. The children shun the little house that Eric made, preferring the wood as their playground. She can see them from the bedroom window, running in and out of the leafless trees. Sorrel’s red anorak shows up against the dark trunks. She lags behind and falls over often; she is probably crying right now. Her daughter’s pain feels deep but inaccessible, like an ache in your abdomen that keeps you awake but you can’t quite locate.

Eve slips on the ring. It feels heavy on her finger, a little loose. She descends to the kitchen, holding tight to the bannister, feeling her way as if in darkness. She hesitates at the kitchen door; Martin is chopping herbs. There is music, something jazzy. She’s not up to this after all, but Martin looks up as she turns to go.

‘Ah, so you’ve come downstairs at last.’ He reaches to switch off the radio and it’s too late to escape; he smiles, but seen across the kitchen, he looks smaller than he used to be, obscurely disappointing.

‘I thought we’d get ahead with supper,’ he says cheerfully. ‘The kids are outside; Melly’s gone to fetch them in. It’s mild now but they say it’s all set to change. The wind’s in the north, a big freeze is coming, snow maybe. Unusual for the time of year. Storm Adelina is approaching. God knows where they find these names.’ He’s talking fast as if scared of silence. Eve looks out of the window to the sky where grey clouds have massed; if the predicted weather had happened three weeks back, the pond might have frozen over. Ash would have fallen on ice. He’d be playing on the floor now, with a scab on his forehead. She might have worried there would be a scar when he grew up. A little white scar, the kind of thing a girlfriend would notice; he’d smile and tell her the story, about how he’d followed the dog outside on a cold morning when he was little …

‘It’s good to see you up and about.’ Martin puts a cup of tea in front of her. ‘I wish to God there were words to make it easier, I feel so helpless.’