Mrs D persuaded us to take a cup of her hot chocolate and, after drinking it, we took to the street again. More people were out and about now, gathered in groups, sharing gossip about the storm. I found myself burning with irritation, as Pa listened patiently to their stories of narrow escapes from flying slates or falling trees, how outhouses had been demolished and gardens devastated, until he could find a moment to interrupt: ‘You haven’t seen Jimmy, have you? He went out before breakfast and hasn’t come back.’

The answer was always the same. ‘Sorry, Vicar. Not this morning, we haven’t.’

‘If you could check any sheds or outhouses where he might have taken shelter,’ we asked each one.

‘Will do, Governor,’ they’d say, or something similar. ‘We’ll definitely keep an eye out and be sure to let you know. He can’t have gone far, can he? Lovely little fella. He’ll turn up soon enough.’ They would return to talk of the storm and we would struggle to get away.

‘Yes, yes. It’s terrible. Of course. Thank you. Thank you.’

And so it went, all the way up the street and back down again to the end of the village. No one had seen Jimmy.

‘Good morning. What a terrible storm last night,’ Mrs Waddington said as she opened the door. ‘My husband is in London and we haven’t been able to contact him. The telephone lines must all be down. Do come in.’

‘Sorry, our boots are so muddy. It’s just that . . .’ Pa began to explain, when Kit appeared.

He looked shocked and seemed to read the anxiety in my face. ‘What’s happened?’

As soon as we explained, they both immediately went to get coats and boots and then, in unspoken agreement, the four of us began walking towards the lake. The gardens, with their low box hedges and neatly trimmed borders, seemed to have been relatively untouched by the storm, but as soon as we rounded the corner and the full stretch of water came into sight, the destruction was evident: willow trees had fallen like ninepins into the water all round the shore and along the edges of the islands. It became clear that, in the waterlogged ground, their roots had been unable to provide a strong enough anchor against the hurricane.

‘Oh my Lord.’ Mrs Waddington clasped her hand to her mouth. ‘What a terrible mess.’

Kit took my hand and squeezed it. ‘Don’t worry, Molly. It looks bad, but I’m sure Jimmy’s not far away. We’ll find him soon enough.’