‘Well, it’s not blocked, is it?’ said Maude. She reached past Nell and pushed; the bolt was hanging loose, and the gate opened easily enough, clattering against the enamelled sign that had been set into the wall, BISHOPS YARD. ‘See?’

‘It’s out of place,’ said Nell. ‘And it’s ugly.’

‘Yes, well, grab a bag, would you?’ Chris opened the car boot. ‘Best not hang around.’

The journey had taken longer than they’d expected, a combination of motorway delays and too many stops to accommodate Maude’s alleged travel sickness. Then they’d been late collecting the keys from the letting agency up on the West Cliff.

‘I’ll go over with you,’ the woman had said, ‘get you settled in,’ but there’d been no mistaking the relief in her eyes when Chris had declined her offer. The shop was empty, the sign flipped to Closed and Nell had the impression that the rest of the staff had left for the day.

‘We’ll manage,’ Chris said. ‘My wife’s a local girl.’

‘Really?’

‘We’ve kept you waiting long enough, and I’m sure you need to get home.’

The woman picked up a folder and two sets of keys, glancing at Nell, most likely trying, and failing, to place her. ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

‘We’ll be fine,’ Chris said. ‘Thanks.’

But Nell had forgotten about the one-way system, or maybe it was new, and once they’d left the agency, they’d had to follow the road up onto the cliff, and down onto the seafront, before driving up the harbour to cross the little swing bridge into the east side of town. Over the river, they’d turned onto the cobbled street, slowing the car as they checked the names of the yards. Chris had parked as close as he could, up on the pavement, more or less.

‘It’s a gate, it doesn’t have to be pretty,’ said Maude, picking up her rucksack and leading the way.

‘Well, thank you for your insight, sweetheart,’ said Chris, ‘I’ll be sure to—’

Nell nudged him and shook her head.

Maude counted off the numbers on the houses as they walked up the yard. There was a narrow gutter running the length of it, not quite central, not quite straight, carving its way through the worn cobbles. ‘One, two, three,’ to their right, ‘five, six, four,’ to the left. She came to a halt at the bottom of a flight of stone steps, steeply pitched, shallow and uneven. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’ She looked up at Nell, frowning. ‘Why is it like that?’