As she staggers forward and clutches Gaia tightly to her, the feeling of her daughter’s skin against her hands, the knowledge that she is safe, restores the forest from a ghostly, watchful presence to mere woodland. She laughs and cups Gaia’s face.

‘I’m sorry, Mumma,’ Gaia says, observing the fear in her mother’s face. ‘I didn’t mean to worry you.’

‘It’s OK, darling. We’re together now.’

In the house, Aurelia glances repeatedly at the trees through the window, in case they happen to inch closer again, as they did outside. Satisfied that they’ve stayed put, she feeds a sleepy Coco in the playroom before settling her into the Moses basket. Derry comes downstairs, yawning and rubbing her eyes. She and Clive arrived late last night. They’d spent Christmas in Sydney and are completely jet-lagged.

‘Go back to bed,’ Aurelia laughs when Derry settles in the chair opposite. Derry is never tired. Aurelia finds it irritating, to be honest. Derry’s one of those people who can function quite happily on four hours’ sleep. Aurelia has never been like that. Even in her pre-baby days she needed a good eight hours to be at her best. Sleep, she’s learning, is both an area of competitiveness and a luxury. She’s learned not to complain about exhaustion in front of Derry, whose utter befuddlement about the concept of being even slightly knackered is tiring in itself.

‘I can’t go back to bed,’ Derry says through another yawn. ‘I’ll make it worse if I sleep now. I have to push through until bedtime.’

‘Now you know how I feel most of the time,’ Aurelia can’t help herself from saying.

Derry deduces her meaning, looks from Coco to her. ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ she says, round-eyed with seriousness.

Aurelia adores Derry for precisely four seconds. This second expedition into the wilderness of motherhood reminds her that the job comes without any validation. Everyone’s out to advise you, or point out that something you’re doing is wrong, or even life-threatening. No one praises you – unless you’re a father, in which case it seems you only have to look at the baby for people to hail you as some kind of Woke Hero. A father who changes a nappy is a god. A mother who continues to breastfeed through mastitis and haemorrhoids and a third-degree tear is just a mother. Still, she hates that she feels the need for praise. Has she really become that weak?

‘Come on, Mumma,’ Gaia says, pulling at her arm. ‘Let’s go do the photos.’

Coco slides off the nipple, still half-asleep. ‘Ssssh,’ Aurelia tells Gaia. ‘We need to wait until Maren’s back from getting the shopping so she can look after Coco.’

Derry’s ears prick up. ‘I can look after the baby if you like?’

‘Really?’ Aurelia says, her mood lifting.