For the whole of her first miserable day in Madeira, Jeanie had been convinced she had made the most dreadful mistake, jetting off by herself in a trembling fit of rage and hurt; but after that, she’d jolly well pulled her socks up and done her best to distract herself from the anguish. Had she been bored? Had she heck. She’d swum in the pool every day, read four excellent books and seen her skin turn a perfect bronze.

Had she been lonely? Not a bit. She’d met a couple of very friendly women from Pembrokeshire who were holidaying together, and they’d invited her to join them for cocktails and dinner several times. Plus the staff had been unfailingly kind, bringing her drinks at the sun-lounger, encouraging her to try the cabaret evening, leaving the most beautiful tropical flowers on her pillow whenever they turned down her bed in the evening. She’d even had a bit of a dance at the Sixties Music Disco, shimmying around to Martha and the Vandellas as if she were twenty again. Obviously her case was already loaded up with all kinds of silly souvenirs for her beloved grandchildren, which she hadn’t been able to resist in the gift shop. It was one of the greatest joys in her life, being a grandma, and just the thought of her grandchildren’s dear smiling faces was enough to bring her tiny crumbs of comfort through her darkest moments.

Jeanie’s life had always been so busy, until now. As well as bringing up four children and working for twenty-five years as a piano teacher, it had still been her putting all those dinners on the table, and organizing the shopping and housework. Even when the children had grown up and flown the nest, she’d kept herself active, doing shifts as a volunteer in the local charity shop and helping with the little ones at a playgroup nearby. She’d maintained an open house for all the Mortimers, when it came to Sunday dinner – everyone welcome! – and always laid on a special party tea for family members on their birthdays: a proper Yorkshire cream tea with home-made scones as well as the cake of their choice. She was never happier than when she had her complete flock around her, all safely gathered in, when she could see them enjoying her dinners and cakes, when she could marvel at what wonderful people her children had grown up to be.

‘I don’t know how you do it,’ Harry’s sisters would cry. ‘How do you find the energy?’ This was from the three of them, mind, who’d serve you shop-bought Battenberg if you went round to their houses, a Wagon Wheel if your luck was in.