‘You know – the DNA tests, where you can trace your ancestors.’

Valentine had heard about them; the librarian had mentioned it to him once when she restamped his books, but he preferred to do it the old-fashioned way, trawling through archives and records and censuses, going back to the library, month after month. It was laborious and time-consuming and involved lots of painstaking research. One day it had struck him that perhaps he didn’t really want to get anywhere, because what would he do then, when it was finished?

‘Too expensive.’ He shook his head dismissively and began setting the table.

‘I got a test for Christmas a few years ago – not exactly the most romantic of presents, but . . .’ She broke off, shrugging. ‘Can I do anything?’

‘No, you’re fine.’

He wished she’d sit down. Relax. Valentine didn’t feel very relaxed.

‘Is this your wife?’

He looked up to see Olivia peering at a small silver-framed photograph on the dresser. He nodded.

‘That’s Gisele with our Helen, when she was just a baby. We’d gone on a day trip to the seaside at Whitby.’

‘I’ve always wanted to go to Whitby, ever since I read Dracula.’

‘Well, we didn’t find any vampires, only buckets and spades,’ he said and Olivia smiled.

‘She’s beautiful. They both are.’

‘Aye.’

His voice was gruff and he turned back to the table to finish laying the cutlery. ‘Oh, bugger!’ A fork fell on the floor. ‘It’s too small . . . the table.’

‘Is it one of those that extends? I can help.’

‘No, it’s all right.’

But before he could say anything, she was crouching down next to him, pulling out the folding leaves and dusting them off. He watched helplessly, feeling a rising panic. He didn’t want her to touch things. He wanted them left as they were.

‘There. See, much better.’ She grinned when it was finished and the table was set and they’d both sat down. ‘Don’t you agree?’

And, much to his surprise, Valentine did. He poured the tea, while Liv offered to cut the cake and Harry joined them from the sofa, settling himself underneath the table to wait patiently for crumbs. Valentine felt much better. Things weren’t meant to be folded away and not used, he realized. Like people, really.

‘Gosh this is delicious. What kind of tea is it?’

Fifteen minutes later they were on their second cup. Olivia looked impressed when Valentine told her.

‘I only drink builder’s,’ she confessed, digging into a large slice of cake. She’d cut them the size of doorsteps. ‘You must think me such a philistine.’

On the contrary; Valentine thought her completely fascinating as she chattered away, complimenting him on his bungalow and the view, while telling him how she’d recently moved here on her own from London. From London – imagine that. Valentine couldn’t. He’d once been on a coach trip with Gisele to see Les Misérables, and that was enough. Too many people. Too much noise and traffic. How did anyone hear the birds?