Josie and I promptly went home and painstakingly made our own, creating stories and filling the pages with our minuscule handwriting. I still have them somewhere. So much of the stuff from our childhood was lost or thrown away every time we moved, but somehow I managed to hang on to those. They were the first stories I ever wrote, and mine were always filled with dreams of Happy Ever Afters, whereas Josie’s were always much darker. Even then we seemed set on a different course.

‘You’re here already.’

I discover Maya waiting for me at the top of the hill. Sitting on the stone steps that lead into the parsonage, her hoodie pulled up, she’s texting furiously.

‘Well, I didn’t want to be late. After last time,’ she grins, looking up from her phone.

I smile and stop to rest for a moment against the wall. I’m a little mortified to realize I need to catch my breath after the climb up the main street.

‘I don’t remember it being that steep.’

‘Have you been before?’

‘Years ago, as a child. Have you?’

‘No, never. There was a school trip here once, but it was the same day as Mum and Simon, my stepdad, got married. I was a bridesmaid, so I didn’t get to go.’

‘Oh, well, I’m sure you had a lot more fun being a bridesmaid.’

‘My stepdad’s a dick.’

Right. OK.

‘Shall we go in?’ I suggest, deciding to ignore that comment and gesturing towards the entrance.

Standing up, she pulls down her hood. Her pink hair is scraped back into a high ponytail, and she’s wearing large hoop earrings and what looks like the entire make-up counter of Boots.

‘I think Heathcliff’s a bit of a dick too,’ she adds and, throwing her backpack over her shoulder, she follows me inside.

Looking around the Parsonage Museum is like stepping back in time. In the parlour is the table around which the Brontë sisters would pace while reading out their stories, while the creaky wooden staircase leads to their bedrooms, where mannequins are dressed in their original gowns with the full-skirted petticoats, tiny shoes and bonnets they wore to walk on the windswept moors.

‘Wow!’ marvels Maya, peering into the glass cases with fascination.

Standing next to her, I nod in agreement, while feeling thankful that wellies and waterproofs have since been invented.

We continue on through the various rooms and, despite my initial reservations, I’m pleasantly surprised by Maya’s enthusiasm. She spends ages poring over the various artefacts and mementoes, at one point even putting her phone away to study a manuscript of Wuthering Heights. Which, as anyone who knows a teenager will tell you, is something of a miracle.

Finally, we exit through the gift shop, where I buy the customary tea towel and Maya buys several postcards, plus a leather bookmark, which I feel quite happy about, as it shows she’s reading something other than her smartphone.

‘That was really cool, thanks.’