It feels strange, the sound of her own voice in the house she has only ever been alone in. Strange, but nice. She fetches a saucer of milk and the dog gives her a look that clearly says I’m not a cat, but drinks it all the same. Tilda empties a tin of tuna into a cereal bowl. It is wolfed down in seconds. The sight of the dog licking hungrily at the empty dish reminds her that she will have to buy more supplies soon. Without a car, this is not a simple task.

When Tilda had informed her parents of her intention to live at the cottage without Mat it was the first thing her mother had brought up.

‘How can you possibly live in such a remote place if you refuse to drive? Really, Tilda, it’s just not sensible. How will you shop?’

‘There’s a post office and stores in the village.’

‘You can’t live on canned food and chocolate bars.’

Wrong again, Mother.

Thistle stands on her stringy legs, head on one side, watching Tilda quizzically.

‘Okay, maybe you will need proper food. Later on I’ll have a look on the Internet to see if there’s a supermarket that delivers around here, okay? Later. Now, we need heat.’

Tilda opens the door of the Rayburn and pokes at the smoldering fire inside. She takes a log from the basket and feeds it in. There is a great deal of smoke, but very little warmth. Shutting the stove door, she pulls a cushion from one of the kitchen chairs and calls the dog to lie on it. But the cushion is small, and however tightly Thistle tries to curl herself up onto it, her legs still dangle over the edges onto the cold kitchen floor.

‘Now you’re making me feel like a bad dog owner. Don’t you know how lucky you are? I haven’t time to fuss over you. I have work to do. A studio to set up. Orders to fill.’ The dog regards her with a woeful expression.

With a sigh Tilda drags the electric fan heater out from the corner of the room and positions it close to the dog’s bed. She switches it on, expecting a cheerful light and a gentle puffing of heat. Instead there is a nerve-jarring bang and all the lights go off.

‘Damn!’

In the gloom of the hallway, she squints at the ancient fuse box. It is a tangle of wires and dusty fitments, but she is eventually able to find the master switch. She flicks it down, and light is restored.

Feeling quite pleased with herself, Tilda returns to the kitchen.