John has walked into the hallway, which is vast and minimalist. It’s not the cluttered interior of the country manor I envisaged at all. It’s more like a show home, as if photos have been taken down from the walls, flowers taken out of vases. John is holding a mug with both hands, so he nods his head and smiles; no words. I follow suit: nod and smile. As neat as I recall him being in those few sad times last summer, he has a serene glow about him today, his hair longer and a little fuzzy around the edges, as if he’s decided to boycott the barbers. He throws another smile my way before slowly returning to his armchair by the window. Freddie has sat himself upon the stairs, his elbows resting on his knees, his head hanging low.

Trish appears from the opposite side of the house: the kitchen, I presume. Her trademark earrings dangle from each ear: peacock feathers. Her glasses are hanging on the gold chain around her neck. The spikes are still in her hair, but the colour is less vibrant, the grey more prominent. Like Freddie, she has lost weight, her beige trousers hanging off her like jogging bottoms, a knitted waistcoat cuddling her like a blanket.

‘Ignore the state of the place,’ she tells me straight off. ‘It’s got no atmosphere, I know, I know. We’re leaving. Not for good. Just for a while. I refuse to spend Christmas in this damned house. This damned country.’

Freddie emits a growl and heaves himself up by pulling on the banister. He begins to flop his feet up the stairs when Trish plants her hands on her hips.

‘And where do you think you’re going?’ she asks her son.

Trish takes my elbow and walks me forward, like a debutante being presented at a ball. Freddie’s eyes burn into his mother’s and I’ve no clue what the dynamic is between them; it doesn’t feel good. I should get the bags out of the car and go.

‘Freddie, put some proper shoes on and help Chloe bring Jack’s things in,’ Trish says, softening her tone. ‘Then I’ll make you some eggy bread.’

Freddie’s whole body slumps and he jerks his head back, groaning, ‘Fine.’

Off he goes, ducking beneath the staircase to sift through a small mountain of shoes: various types and sizes from wellies to trainers. Trish is watching his every move, analysing how he stoops, how he ties his laces, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. Then she opens the front door and herds both Freddie and me out like cattle. We trudge the bags into the house and leave them – as directed by Trish – by the shoe pile.

‘Now go and sit with your father,’ Trish tells Freddie.