The stinging was getting worse and as she flexed her fingers Nell suspected her pyjama knees were smeared with grass stains.

‘Here.’ Gina bent and tugged at a broad-leafed plant growing at the edge of the patio. ‘Try this.’ She crushed the leaf and pressed it into Nell’s hands. A dock leaf.

‘Thanks,’ said Nell. ‘Would you like to come in, for a cup of tea, or something?’ She wasn’t sure why she’d offered, other than it felt like a neighbourly thing to do. The thought of breakfast made her stomach churn.

‘Oh, no,’ said Gina, looking up at the house – and it was there again, very faintly, that fixed look, not disapproval, more . . . distaste. ‘I’ll let you start your day in peace.’ She nodded towards the sandstone cottage at the top of the path. ‘I’ll see you around, I expect. Or you’re welcome to call into the shop.’

‘The shop?’

‘Sheela Na Gig. You can’t miss it, it’s just on Church Street, two doors on from the bookshop.’ She picked up her bags and smiled at Nell. ‘Bye for now, then.’

*

Maude was standing by the sink when Nell limped back inside, still clutching the crumpled dock leaf. Her hair was tousled and her face flushed and creased from sleep; she was holding a glass of milk.

‘Morning, sweetheart.’

‘Hmm.’

It was better than nothing, Nell supposed.

‘What happened to you?’ asked Maude.

‘I tripped . . .’

‘You woke me up.’

‘Really?’

‘Something did.’

‘Seagulls?’

‘No.’ Maude stopped to consider. ‘It was – I don’t know – something thumping. What’s that?’

‘A dock leaf, for nettle stings.’

‘Does it work?’

‘A bit.’ Nell dropped the leaf into the kitchen rubbish and turned on the tap to wash her hands. The burning had subsided into a dull itch, and a constellation of small white blisters was scattered across both palms.

‘What were you doing?’

‘I was – exploring.’ Nell nodded towards the bankside. ‘And I lost my balance.’

Maude edged forward, peering through the window. ‘Aren’t we a bit close? To the cliff ? What if there’s a landslide?’

Nell wasn’t sure she was joking. ‘There hasn’t been one since the eighteenth century,’ she said, drying her hands carefully on a tea towel, ‘so I think we’re probably OK for the next few weeks.’

‘Is that what happened to the other houses?’

‘What other houses?’

‘There’s a book in the living room, some Victorian photographer. There used to be a lot more of them, all down the street, sort of pressed up against the cliff.’

‘No.’ Nell couldn’t help smiling. ‘No, I was . . . I think most of them were knocked down in the 1950s.’

‘Why?’

‘They were, like – tenements, very overcrowded.’

‘Slums?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Dad said there’s stuff about the house on the website.’

‘Did he?’

‘He showed me. He said I could read it if I want. Can I?’

‘Sure, but you know, later.’