‘William bloody Beauregard,’ Devan muttered sourly, as they tramped on. ‘Sounds like something out of the American Civil War. Wasn’t there a General Beauregard who got killed for doing something brave and foolish?’

Connie laughed. ‘He seems OK. The solid, cheerful sort.’

‘He won’t be cheerful for long,’ Devan harrumphed.

She grabbed his arm, gave him a squeeze. ‘Stop it, will you? You’ve had a really good career out of that surgery.’ Her husband was silent. ‘And there’ll be two of them,’ she added.

Still no response. Then Devan said, ‘I think he’s a bit of a smug twat, if I’m honest.’

Connie snatched away her hand. She was worn out from trying to sympathize with him. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Be a miserable old bastard. Will was only being friendly. You could tell he really respected you and your reputation.’

Later that night she lay in bed alone. She’d had a long talk with her daughter as soon as Devan declared he was going to the pub after supper. The Skittle House – ‘Skittles’ to the locals – was on the corner of the main street, the publican a Yorkshireman called Stacy, friend to them both.

‘Are you worried?’ Caitlin had asked, after Connie had filled her in about her father’s mood. ‘He sounded very grumpy when I called him last week. Said he was really missing you.’

Connie sighed. ‘So he keeps telling me. But when I’m here, he does nothing but avoid me. All he seems to want to do is stare at his phone, watch sport and drink too much. He’s at the pub right now, despite boozing all day at the Hutchisons’.’

‘And he won’t consider antidepressants?’

‘Well, no … because he’s not depressed, is he? According to his own expert medical opinion, your dad’s merely “adjusting” to a big life change.’

‘Well, I suppose he might have a point. It’s not even a year since he stopped working.’

Connie had sighed, aware that Devan’s distress dated much further back than that. ‘I know, but …’

‘Poor Mum. Must be hell, having him so grouchy all the time.’ Caitlin paused. ‘I hope he’s not being mean to you.’

‘God, no. Your dad would never be mean,’ Connie said firmly, anxious to dispel her daughter’s concern. Although she’d almost rather he was mean – that he’d say something she could really get her teeth into and they could have a good old-fashioned row. They’d always been good at rowing, and even better at making up. Instead, the constant drip, drip of dyspeptic sniping and lack of motivation dragged her down so much that she was beginning to dread being in his company for any length of time.