‘And I am all for the white stuff,’ Rose told me. ‘I’d just rather it arrived after we’ve broken up for the school holidays. The last thing we need is that bloody boiler putting its parts on and us having to close. It’s the play on Wednesday.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Dolly stoically, ‘Beamish will keep it going.’

Good old Beamish.

‘What was it you wanted me to get for you, Dolly?’ I hastily asked, keen to pull her thoughts away from our local hero again. ‘Did you say albums?’

It was a job to kneel, but I managed it. In Dolly’s large sideboard there were collections of photograph albums dating back decades.

‘This is my father,’ Dolly said proudly, once she pored through them looking for what it was Rose had come to borrow. ‘This was the first year he was crowned champion.’

The photograph she was holding up showed the Fenland landscape gripped in what looked like Arctic conditions. Even though it was in black and white and a little blurry you could tell from her father’s pinched features just how bitingly cold it was.

‘This was the real weather you were referring to at the ice rink last night, I take it, Dolly?’

I was surprised she hadn’t shown me the photographs before.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We had snow every year then and the deepest wind-driven drifts and the River Wyn was always frozen solid.’

‘These are perfect,’ said Rose, picking out some other images of children building snowmen and old cars being pulled out of ditches. ‘They’re the perfect snapshot of the time. Can I take these and copy them?’

‘Of course,’ nodded Dolly. ‘I’m delighted you’ve found a use for them.’

‘What are you using them for?’ I asked Rose as I picked out one of Dolly looking adoringly up at her father as he held up his trophy, her cheeks rosy from the Wynbridge wind.

‘They’re going to be writing prompts for the year three class,’ Rose explained. ‘Mr Matthews is keen for the children to feel a connection to the Fens and its unusual landscape. We’re going to use these to show how different the winter was when Dolly was their age and encourage them to come up with a piece of writing or a poem which captures the Wynbridge winter as it once was.’

‘That’s a big ask, isn’t it?’

‘You’d be surprised,’ she smiled. ‘There are some extremely creative young minds in that class and you’re going to talk to them, Dolly, aren’t you? Just to help them along a bit.’

‘Yes,’ said Dolly. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

‘I think it sounds like a wonderful idea,’ I added.