She dropped the stone and he picked it up. It was smooth, worn by centuries – maybe millennia – of gentle erosion. He hefted it in his palm, then threw it up and caught it.

‘Listen,’ he said, and tossed it into the lake. It vanished with a satisfying plop.

Jo frowned, then her eyes screwed up and she started to cry.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and grabbed a similar looking stone. He handed it to her, but she batted it away.

‘It’s as good,’ he said, and tried again.

She did not want it. She wanted the particular pebble she had been playing with.

Which was now in the lake.

‘Don’t worry, Jo,’ he said. He took off his shoes and stepped into the frigid water. ‘I can get it.’

He walked out to where – roughly – the stone had entered the lake and made a show of searching for it, peering into the water. After a moment he reached down and picked up a similar sized stone and examined it.

‘No,’ he said, and let it drop. ‘Not that one.’

He repeated this a few times, then, eventually, nodded.

‘This is it,’ he said. ‘Here’s your pebble.’

He walked out of the lake and placed it on the ground in front of her. She stared at it for a second, then picked it up and, with a giggle, dropped it on the ground. Evidently it was close enough.

Tom smiled and took out his phone. He checked his emails. There was a new one from Roland.

Tom. Check out this photo. You need to see this.

He clicked on it, but the photo didn’t load. There was no signal here; the phone must have picked up the email earlier but not had time to download the attachment. He could get it when he was back at the house. No doubt it was something for the album.

There was a noise behind him and he turned around.

The gate at the side of the house was open. He saw Alice’s back, walking away towards the drive. A minute later, she reappeared, pulling a small trailer, on top of which was a rowing boat.

There was an old man next to her. She waved, and beckoned for Tom to come over.

‘Well, Jo,’ he said. ‘What on earth is Mummy up to?’

Alice

Tom walked up from the lake, Jo in a sling against his chest. The boat – a pale blue fibreglass dinghy about eight feet long with Annelise stamped on the side – was light, and the trailer, rusty as it was, wheeled easily enough. The slope down to the lake was steep in parts, though, and she did not want it to run away with her.

And Eric was no help. He was in his late eighties and very frail; she’d been worried he wouldn’t survive the drive, especially given the dirt caked on the windscreen of his ancient Land Rover.