‘True, but we have the table in the kitchen.’

‘Or a playroom for Lolly?’

‘She usually plays by me in the front room. Or up in her bedroom. But . . .’ I hesitated, glancing at her ‘. . . you’re welcome to use it. For whatever you want.’

Her face brightened and she turned to me, her eyes widening. ‘Really? That would be great. Although,’ her face fell, ‘I don’t have my sewing machine any more.’

‘You sew?’

‘I made my own clothes before . . .’ She blushed. ‘Anyway, I’ll save up and buy another.’

I wondered if she’d made the patched green coat she was wearing. It certainly had a homemade look about it.

‘You might be able to get one second hand. I can ask around.’

‘Thank you.’ She lifted her eyes to mine and held my gaze longer than was comfortable. Her lashes were tinted with blue mascara, a fleck of which had landed on her pale cheekbone. She had a very small black dot on her iris that looked like a beauty spot.

I lowered my gaze first. ‘Right. Well, I’d better see to Lolly,’ I said, turning around and going back upstairs.

Later, after I’d tucked you up in your little iron-framed bed, Daphne and I sat side by side on the brown corduroy sofa, like a nervous couple on a first date. She was still wearing her coat and a pair of navy platform boots that looked like the toes had been coloured with pen under her flared jeans. I’d poured us both a glass of Babycham that Joel, the landlord of the Stag and Pheasant, had given me for Christmas, and we sat and watched the flames and logs spit and crackle in the open fire. The smell of smouldering wood and firelighter fuel was heavy and intoxicating. The radio was on and Blondie’s ‘Heart Of Glass’ was playing in the background.

I could see Daphne taking in the modest living room with the pink and blue flowered wallpaper I’d put up myself when we first moved in and the fringed floor lamp in the corner that clashed.

‘I hope it’s not too basic for you,’ I said to her. ‘At least we have an indoor bathroom. The last owners put it in.’

Daphne smiled enigmatically, casting her eyes around the room. ‘I’ve lived in worse,’ she said, and I tried not to feel offended. I’d made it as homely as I could for you.

‘It was cheap.’ I smiled and shrugged, trying to look nonchalant and not like I was secretly proud of owning my home. Something nobody else could ever take away. My security. ‘I didn’t want to spend all the money I had on a property.’ I’d ignored the estate agent’s warning about the ridges on a thatched roof having to be replaced every ten years. It seemed so far away. I might have moved by then.