THE VILLAGE NEVER LOOKED PRETTIER THAN IT DID THE evening I first met Daphne Hartall.

Warm white lights were strung up between lamp-posts along the high street and twinkled against the inky sky; the church choir stood on the stone steps of the market cross and sang ‘Silent Night’ in front of a huge Christmas tree, and a few rickety stalls had been set up around the edges of the village square. Melissa Brown, who owned the only café in Beggars Nook – imaginatively named Melissa’s – was open late to serve hot drinks and mince pies. The smell of roasted chestnuts and mulled wine filled the air.

And that Christmas you were old enough to appreciate the magic of it all.

‘Mummy. Drink?’

I looked down at you. Your little snub nose was red with the cold and the pink scarf I’d knitted you was up to your chin. It was already dark and not quite tea-time.

‘Why not?’ I smiled, clasping your soft woollen hand in my own. ‘What about a hot chocolate?’

You squealed in excitement, trying to pull me across the square.

And that was when I saw her.

The woman who was to change my life. Although, of course, I didn’t know that yet.

She looked sad. That was my initial thought. She was standing alone by the market cross, blowing on her bare hands as she watched the carol singers. She was wearing a thin olive-green velvet coat with colourful patches stitched onto it and her cord flares were too loose around her thighs. She was thin, I observed, her collar bones sticking out from her shirt. A crocheted beret was pressed down onto long blonde hair parted in the middle, and she had a large bag over her shoulder. She was new to the village, I could tell. She had that look about her. And I made it my business to watch out for newcomers – even while keeping myself to myself. I had to. For my safety. And for yours. This backwater village in the depths of the Cotswolds was where people came to hide. And I recognized a kindred spirit when I saw one.

‘Mummy,’ you urged, tugging on my hand.