I felt myself warming up. My heart was becoming my own again. My thoughts had been a roundabout pushed too fast; all blurs and gale. Now it was slowing. I was still sick and dizzy but I felt as though I knew where my feet were at last and I knew they didn’t belong where they were – bare and mucky and sitting on the floor in front of John’s chair. Unsteadily, I stood myself up.

‘Sit back down,’ urged Cordelia. ‘The tea’s nearly ready …’

‘I’m grand, Cordelia. Honestly, there’s no need to fuss.’

‘Please, Flick, for me, just …’

She stopped and I found myself smiling. It started there, really. That’s when we became friends. It was a nice moment, like deciding on the right name for a pet or a child or clearing a debt. It was a subtle shifting of labels; a re-adjustment of my centre. I was Flick. She was Cordelia. Cordy, in a rush. And we were friends.

Harper walked from the kitchen and returned a moment later, rubbing his hands. ‘Barely a scratch on the wagon and the house has had nowt more than a bang or two. Needs a few tiles and might need a bit of pointing but I’ve got two apprentices’ll value the work. Could be worse. Could be a lot worse.’

‘Yes, Flick could be under the wheels,’ said Cordelia, with a little giggle that I hadn’t heard before.

‘Aye, well, that would have been hard to explain to John.’

‘He’d probably thank you for it,’ I said, rolling my eyes and trying to make light. In truth I was imagining John’s face in that moment. Wondering how he would have lived the rest of his life. Whether he would be all right. If he’d marry again. Whether some bit of stuff would turn his head and whether he’d lay in our bed telling her about how his first wife didn’t know how babies got in bellies until she was already a few months pregnant and had no clue how they got out again until she started in labour. I coloured at the thought but kept myself focussed. Things were OK. Things were good.

‘John dotes on you,’ said Harper and I turned my face away to hide the smile.

‘You said you were going to the church,’ said Cordelia, and without being asked, she hopped up onto the counter by the sink and sat there with her bum on the draining board. She did it so suddenly and so naturally I found myself torn between telling her to get down and querying why I’d never thought to sit up there myself. She looked so stylish, like she was in one of those films with Terence Stamp; sort of dishevelled but beautiful; a rose crushed in a fist.