Mikey Latimer pushed in the first door they came to and the smell of hay and silage caught in Liv’s throat, pulling her to a stop as a rush of memories flooded her from years earlier. This had always been the highlight of winter on the farm for her, the newborn lambs. Every other year, there was one that needed a little extra care and Liv had always been in charge of feeding and looking after the stragglers of the bunch. ‘Triplets,’ he said proudly pointing to a worn-out, ragged-looking sheep and her three tiny lambs.

‘Oh, I can’t believe it.’ They were only just born, probably not much more than an hour old. ‘Were you here for it all?’ she said a little enviously. ‘I wish you’d called me down.’

‘What and spoil the dinner – you must be joking?’ He laughed. That was her dad all over; he wouldn’t want to inconvenience anyone for the world. ‘Anyway, Cleopatra and I had it all in hand.’

‘Cleopatra?’ Liv glanced at the sheep a little dubiously.

‘What? Sure, isn’t she as entitled to that name as anyone?’ He looked a little embarrassed. ‘You won’t tell your mother, will you? You know, about her name – she might think I’ve gone a bit soft…’

‘Don’t worry, it can be our secret,’ Liv said and she kissed his ruddy cheek. ‘Now, can I get a good look at them?’ she asked climbing over the wooden barrier easily and grabbing the smallest of the lambs for a closer look.

‘It’s lovely to have you back here, Liv,’ her dad said later as they trudged back up towards the house. He stopped for a moment next to the gable wall, laid a hand on it and stood silently catching his breath. She knew what he was thinking. They’d been here, years before – it was Rachel’s last year with them and they’d stood looking out towards the vast ocean.

‘You know, there’s a whole lot more out there than just…’ His voice petered off, as if what he had to say was too much for him to put into words. But she knew what he meant. In an ideal world, as far as her father was concerned, she’d fall in love with Pete and they’d get married and produce a half dozen grandchildren. Even, after six years, it seemed Eddie Quirke was still not quite good enough for his daughter.

‘I know, Dad.’ She squeezed his arm affectionately, basking in his love, which felt as if it simmered in the vastness of the moment between them. ‘Come on, Dad, I’ll make us a nice pot of tea and we can finish our breakfast in peace before they all arrive in on top of us.’

*