Rosie put down the letter and pushed open the nearest door to reveal a large kitchen. A scrubbed wooden table sat at one end, and there was a fridge and a stove, as well as a big, open stone fireplace. A log basket was piled high in the corner, and I guessed the cold ashes were the source of the woodsmoke I’d smelled on the way in. A couple of threadbare sofas were positioned round the fireplace, and a clunky-looking radio sat on the worktop. There were big baskets of white candles on the mantelpiece and dribbly stubs in holders scattered throughout the room.

We walked in and startled another couple of large, fat flies. They began to drone sluggishly against the window, looking for a way out. When I opened the window to try to shoo them away, two more flew in instead, so I gave up and slammed the window closed with a bang. There were several cans of fly spray around, and the smell of it hung faintly in the air. I could see dead flies on the floor too. Then my eye fell on another note from Kate, lying on the work surface.

No kettle, I’m afraid, but you can heat water in a saucepan on the hob, and there’s tea and coffee in the 40cupboard. Use bottled water, not from the tap xx

I rolled my eyes. “Why didn’t one of them think to pack a kettle?”

I rummaged in the cupboards until I found a saucepan. Everything in the kitchen felt sticky – the cupboard handles, the window latches, the knobs on the hob. It was like salt had blown in from the ocean and settled over everything. There was bottled water on the worktop so I put it on to boil and saw that Rosie was checking her phone.

“Any service?” I asked without much hope as I took two mugs down from the cupboard.

“Nope.” Rosie shoved it back in her pocket. “No bars at all.”

We just about had time for a cup of tea and a quick sandwich before the front door opened and everyone arrived in a flurry of activity. Rosie and I went to the doorway to see Dad and Kate putting down their equipment while Charlie kicked off his boots.

“Girls!” Dad exclaimed. “It’s so good to see you!”

Dad was tall, with brown hair, whereas Kate was petite, with hair so dark it was almost black. They 41were both flushed and windswept from the walk back. Beside them, little Charlie looked just as he did in Dad’s Facebook photos – dark hair like Kate’s, a smattering of freckles and the cheekiest grin I’d ever seen. While Dad and Kate were still shrugging off their windbreakers, Charlie came racing over to stare up at us with an expectant expression on his face.

“Um, hi?” I said.

“Hi!” he replied. “I’m Charlie! I like snails and tractors.”