‘I’m so afraid of forgetting the exact colour of her hair,’ Maureen says. ‘Forgetting anything would be a betrayal of my daughter. There have been times since you’ve arrived when I’ve just caught a glimpse of you, going out into the hall, or walking up the lane in the morning. Sometimes I’ve stood at the window at the top of these stairs and watched you. Does that sound ridiculous?’

Chloe shakes her head gently and her hair falls out of Maureen’s grasp.

‘But I’ve allowed myself to imagine, just for a moment, that you, with your dark hair, walking off up the lane towards the bus stop, are her . . . that you are Angie. I’ve let myself pretend that she’s still here and she lives with us and it’s her, not you, going to work every morning. You must think I’m mad.’ Maureen closes her eyes and smiles. ‘I know Patrick does. I made the mistake of telling him that once, I even said . . .’ She pauses, and dips her gaze towards the floor. ‘I even said . . .’

Chloe holds her breath. What?

A loud rapping on the front door shakes Maureen out of the moment. Her eyes dart around the room.

‘Oh God, what if that’s Patrick?’ Maureen says.

‘But why would he be knock—’

‘Quick, get the last of this stuff away.’

Another rattle at the door.

‘Quick.’

The two women hurry as they put the last of the toys back in the boxes. They throw them in, without the care they’d taken until now, pushing the cardboard sides down.

‘Quickly,’ Maureen says, panic staining her voice.

They step outside the room and Maureen shuts the door behind them, her hands shaking as she clicks the padlock back into place and slips the key inside her bra. She adjusts her hair and hurries down the stairs. Chloe is unsure whether to follow her. A mumbled voice meets Maureen in the kitchen, the sound of the back door closing shut as Chloe puts her first step on the top of the stairs. A woman’s voice:

‘. . . thought you might be in the garden . . . sunny out today . . . murder a cuppa . . .’

Chloe takes a few steps down the stairs and peers over the bannister. She can only see the back of a black coat on a chair, hear the scrape of the wooden legs on the kitchen lino as whoever has arrived sits down at the kitchen table. She sounds as if she’s at home, whoever she is. Chloe listens but doesn’t recognize the voice. But then, why should she? All the way out here she’s never met any of Maureen and Patrick’s friends and relatives. It probably would have been different if they’d still been in Chestnut Avenue, but out here, surrounded by all these fields, sometimes this house feels more like an island.