Isobel told me that her dad was at the church all day and wouldn’t be back till late. I don’t know why she felt she had to say that. Would it have been different if he’d been there? Would he have welcomed me into his house as warmly as Isobel had? I certainly looked out of place in my grubby army fatigues and hob-nailed boots, like I’d been blown out of the desert and landed in the middle of an English fairy tale.

She took me into the kitchen, which was so clean it made my eyes hurt, and made us both big cups of hot chocolate with tiny sweets on top which I’d never seen before. Isobel told me they were called marshmallows and that they melted into the hot chocolate and made it taste delicious. She was right. It was the sweetest, most lovely thing I’ve ever had, nothing like the stuff he makes, which is just a spoonful of cocoa with hot water. This was creamy and gooey and made me feel like I was floating on the ceiling with happiness.

After we’d had our drinks Isobel said she’d show me her room. It was just as pretty as I’d imagined, with pale-yellow curtains tied back with ribbon and a huge bed with fluffy pillows and frilly sheets and curtains all round it. Isobel told me it was called a four-poster. The walls were covered with pictures of men in baggy trousers and vests, who, Isobel told me, were a band, but I’d never heard of them because the only bands he ever mentions are the marching bands he knew when he was in the army and I didn’t like to ask Isobel if she liked them because she’d probably think I was weird so I just stayed quiet and looked around. The one thing I noticed most about the room was just how much stuff Isobel had. Books and clothes and pretty little trinkets seemed to cover every surface. How was it possible to have so much? Her dad must be a very rich man, I figured. But the best thing in there, the thing I was most envious of, was the big doll’s house in the corner of the room. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. And what made it so magical was that it was a miniature version of the vicarage itself. It had the same exterior, sandy-coloured brick with a dark-red door, the same pointy roof and tall chimneys, and inside the same décor, right down to the yellow curtains in Isobel’s room. She told me that her mother had put the doll’s house together before she died. She’d wanted something for Isobel to remember her by. When she said this I felt like hugging Isobel and never letting go. She had lost her mum like I had. She’d grown up with just her dad in a big house and she must have had questions that her dad didn’t want to hear, just like I did. I wanted to tell Isobel that I understood, that we were the same, but before I got the chance she took my arm and told me to sit down on the bed next to her while she showed me her make-up case.