‘Give it a few weeks, at least,’ Pat advised, as if she’d read Anna’s mind. ‘Spend some real time in the place – make it feel like your own. It’s bound to feel strange when it’s still full of someone else’s things.’

‘Yes,’ Anna admitted. ‘That is odder than I thought it would be, it’s true.’

‘We can help with that,’ Frank told her. ‘If you’ve got stuff to move in or out, let me know – I’ll be happy to lend a hand.’

‘Thank you,’ Anna said, genuinely touched at how welcome the couple were trying to make her feel. ‘To be honest, I think the first thing I need to do is clean. Could I borrow a floorcloth, a scrubbing brush, some spray and a bucket?’

After all, she reasoned to herself as she speared another piece of bacon, whatever she was going to do with it – the vague thought of a holiday let had passed through her mind, although who would want to rent a shed with nothing but a single bed in it, she couldn’t imagine – the Fishergirl’s Luck would need a good scrub.

Five

Anna started with the kitchen, because the idea of a dirty work surface upset something fundamental in her chef’s brain. In one of the cupboards she found an old dustpan and brush, with which she swept the tiles in preparation for later mopping. Then she attacked the worktops. Anna was surprised at how well the old slabs of oak came up beneath her attention, the wood’s curving grain a natural mirror of the shape of the waves she could see through the tiny picture window over the chipped enamel of the sink. The sea was gentle today, and she wished she could hear it more clearly as she worked, but soon discovered that the window had not been designed to be opened. It was no doubt another safety feature to guard against the weather, and it made Anna wonder about the storm that Pat and Frank had mentioned. What it would be like to experience one, especially from inside the tiny confines of the Fishergirl’s Luck?