‘No, actually,’ I said. ‘I know a bit about the history of the area. That was one of the reasons I was keen to come here.’

He seemed surprised. ‘You chose Gilsland?’

I moved my head from side to side like a pendulum, indicating that this was a complex question. In truth, my husband had simply wanted me to be somewhere out of the way. He gave me the option of a dozen houses from rural locations and told me to pick the one I liked. I was in no position to ask for something less remote. If I chose not to go through with the wedding he would simply find somebody else and I would be back on the streets with a swelling belly and nowhere to go but down. I picked a thatched cottage in Somerset but the owner wouldn’t sell to anybody but a local. Gilsland was my third choice. Mrs Winslow’s lawyers had no compunction about selling to a man from well beyond the village boundary. They wanted the best price and in my husband, they found a rich fool willing to pay it. When I first moved in it was with a sense of excitement. I wanted to know all about my new home. Read up on its history and the seemingly endless violence and bloodshed that had scarred the landscape. But the novelty wore off. My extravagant home became my prison. My loneliness became exhausting. Nobody visited. Nobody called. And when Stefan was born there wasn’t a soul from the village who bothered to come and wish us well. I grew to hate the village and its people. After he died, I hated everything.

‘You go in any village you’ll hear stories,’ he said. ‘I’ve no doubt you could stick a pin in a map and find folk who would swear blind their village were the centre of the universe and the most fascinating place on earth. Maybe not just a map. Maybe an atlas. I’ll put money there are men and women even out there in Australia who reckon the history of their little town is worth a book and Australia’s no older than the wagon I’ve got in the barn.’

He must have seen impatience in my expression because he gave himself a shake, as if exasperated with himself.