I give a little shrug and avert my eyes from her gaze, feeling guilty. There is no holiday lettings organization, just a crudely drawn map and a person with good intentions. Though I’m becoming more unsure of those intentions with each passing minute.

‘Look, let me help get the stove working at least,’ she says. ‘You can’t be without hot food and water in this weather.’

‘Oh, that would be great,’ I say, my shoulders lifting. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

I have never felt more grateful to another human being as I do right now. The loneliness of the last few days has felt like a cancer eating into my flesh, my bones, right down to my core. If Joe hadn’t been here with me, to battle me and smack me and demand I take him back to Daddy, I would have doubted I even existed.

‘It’s okay,’ she says, getting up from the table. ‘You’ve got a child. It’s the least I can do.’

She smiles and walks across to the stove.

‘Now do we have matches in this place?’ she says, looking around.

‘No,’ I say. ‘But I’ve got a lighter. Will that do?’

‘It should be okay,’ she says, opening the door of the stove.

I grab the lighter from my bag and hand it to her.

She takes it then quietly sets to work. I stand by the table and watch, reassured not just by her company but because there is something about her brisk, no-nonsense manner that reminds me of my dad. When I was a child I would follow him as he fixed things around the house – broken shelves, spent light bulbs, cracked pipes – safe in the knowledge that nothing bad could happen when I had my dad to look after me. I haven’t allowed myself to think about him much over the years, it was too painful, yet these past few days he is everywhere. I recall Mark’s words when I came out of the doctor’s three weeks after Joe was born: ‘If you’re not careful you’ll end up like your father.’ He said it in such a throwaway manner that I couldn’t work out whether it was a statement or a threat.

‘There we are.’

She stands back from the stove as a warm glow spreads through the kitchen. The woody smell reminds me of my parents’ kitchen in Highgate. A cosy, enveloping scent that always made me feel warm and safe. The memories of family suddenly become too much and I feel my eyes begin to water. Blinking the tears away, I smile at the woman, who is standing next to the stove, her arms resting on the kitchen counter.

‘Thank you,’ I say, bending to scoop Joe into my arms. ‘You don’t know how grateful I am, really.’

‘It’s not a bother,’ she says with a shrug. ‘Like I said, I couldn’t let that little boy stay here with no warmth. I’m so sorry, I haven’t even asked your name.’