She shrugs, feigning indifference. ‘Dunno. I expect so. Salcombe’s a small place. Well, I’d better get back.’

‘OK. Thanks for bringing the paint and the pasty. Don’t forget it’s quiz night at the pub.’

She gathers up the wrappers and crumbs, gives him a quick kiss. ‘I’m off to Kingsbridge. Had a call from a lady who wants me to create a nursery for her new baby. I’m just going over to check it out. Should be a nice little job. See you later.’

Jack hears the front door close but stays where he is for a while, finishing his tea. He feels his luck at having such a bright, lively daughter living with him, working with him, but it hasn’t been all roses. He can still hardly believe that it’s been nearly ten years now since Sally died from that bloody awful cancer. Amy was thirteen. She’d been three when he and Sally bought the little cottage in Courtenay Street, raising every penny they’d saved towards a fearsome mortgage but determined to stay in the town. No way they could do it now, given how property prices have gone through the roof, but they’d managed it back then. Sally worked with him, took any odd jobs that came her way, helped him do up the cottage, which was a wreck. How she loved that little cottage. They’d grafted, and they’d been so happy …

Jack puts the mug down with a bang. The disease had eaten her up so quick and he’d felt so helpless, so angry. It was only having Amy that kept him going. He couldn’t believe his luck when, after she’d finished her art course at Falmouth, she told him she wanted to join him, work with him, stay here in Salcombe.

‘I love it here,’ she told him. ‘And I love this work, making things fresh and clean and bright. I like going sailing and going to the pub and walking on the cliffs. If you’re happy with it then that’s what I’d like to do.’

He could barely answer her without blubbing.

‘I’ll take that as a “yes” then,’ she said.

And that’s how it’s been for the last couple of years. Amy’s like her mum: she grafts, she’s cheerful, likes a bit of fun.