‘It was actually a bit of a relief when he was finally diagnosed. Being on the autism spectrum, that’s what the doctors call it. It helped us understand why change makes him anxious, why he likes everything a certain way.’

‘He showed me his list,’ I nod, and Ben smiles.

‘He likes lists – they make him feel safe. It’s the routine. He likes everything to be in order.’

‘I’m with Stanley on that one.’ I pull a face at the mess of the kitchen. It makes Ben laugh, and I feel pleased to be able to lighten his mood.

‘He’s a brilliant little boy and he’s been through such a lot. He’s just different, that’s all; and the other kids don’t like different, at that age.’

‘Well, if there’s anything I can do to help . . .’

‘Thanks.’

I gesture towards Harry, who’s pounced on the ball and is now chewing it enthusiastically, trying to rip off the green furry coating.

‘Don’t tell Stanley that Harry ate his snowman’s nose.’

‘I won’t.’ Ben smiles and shrugs. ‘Anyway, I’d best get on.’

‘Yeah, me too.’ I pick up the towel. ‘I’ve got my friend and her daughter coming up from London to stay at the weekend and I’ve so much to do. I haven’t sorted out the spare bedroom, so I’ve no idea where they’re going to sleep.’

‘Well, I might be able to help you with that.’

I look at him with interest. ‘Really?’

Ben pulls out his phone. ‘Hang on, let me make a call.’

The Castle

‘Oh, Liv, this is wonderful!’

Naomi and Ellie have just arrived and are standing hand-in-hand in a patch of dappled sunlight in my back garden, surveying the large white bell tent strung with candy-coloured bunting and lanterns that has been erected underneath the giant sycamore tree, which has seemingly burst into leaf overnight.

She turns to me, her face a mix of delight and astonishment. ‘How did you do it all by yourself?’

‘Well, I had some help,’ I admit, pleased by her reaction.

In truth, I had a lot of help. It was all Ben’s idea. His friend has a company that provides bell tents for local festivals. At first I hadn’t been sure at all. A tent? In this weather? But Ben had been convincing; it always rained at festivals and these tents were waterproof, plus – by some divine miracle – they’d forecast good weather for Easter.

‘And let’s be frank: where else are your friends going to sleep?’ he’d asked, eyebrows raised, looking at all the junk piled up in the back bedroom. ‘In your mouldy bathroom?’

The tent had arrived yesterday, and Ben and his builders downed tools and spent all day in the garden putting it up – luckily the garden’s quite big, so we could position it far away from the cement mixer, which didn’t quite go with the festival vibe. And Ben was right. By lunchtime the drizzle had stopped and, as if by magic, the sullen grey skies disappeared and the sun made its entrance like a long-lost friend, bathing everything in sunlight and drying up my sodden lawn.