‘So, he’s into churches, is he?’ remarked Lily archly, as Esther obligingly held up the postcard of Gaudi’s famous cathedral. Esther guessed that the absence of a second communication for his sister was a factor in this sour mood. Lucas still hadn’t received so much as one, but they all knew better than to draw attention to that.

‘The Sagrada Familia is a bit more than a church,’ he muttered.

‘The Casa Batlló was my favourite,’ Esther murmured, her pulse quickening as the usual image of Dylan surfaced, a speck swallowed up by hordes, lost and unprotectable. ‘“All well. Don’t worry,”’ she read out again. ‘So that’s something.’ A silence followed, and Esther found herself wishing Dylan could see the three of them at their phone screens, hanging on his every bland, printed syllable, desperate to understand and get him safely home.

‘I bet he’s enjoying putting everyone in a lather, as per,’ Lily declared, sounding affectionate now as well as exasperated, before signing herself off with a mumble about another busy day of band auditions.

‘I mean, at least he’s still alive,’ said Esther, after she had gone.

‘Yes, that continues to be a matter for great celebration.’

‘Are you taking anything, Lucas? You really don’t look…’

‘I’m fine, thanks. A lot on, that’s all. Work-wise. You look well. Are you well?’

‘Not so bad. Coping.’

‘Good. Coping. Yes, that rather sums it up.’

It was good to have the garden to get on with. Esther had put on old tracksuit bottoms and a fleece, not minding the turn in the weather, colder still since yesterday, but dry. She cut and chopped and piled, too lost in a trance of determination to bother with lunch. Her shoulders ached and her hands hurt, despite the mighty gloves; but the sense of progress was moreish, even as it dawned on her that, with her slow pace, it would certainly be many months before the ugly lumps of cleared ground, riddled with roots and stones, could begin to resemble the pristine lawn of which she dreamed.

By five o’clock, with her head thrumming, a hunger headache hovering, Esther was ready to stop. She had progressed to within ten feet or so of the buried potting shed – the ridge of its roof was tantalisingly close, like an upturned rowing boat sticking out of the high dense sea of thorny foliage. One last cut, she decided, forcing her aching arms up to perform the task, picking out a huge, thick mini-trunk of a branch. It slid gracefully from its moorings revealing, just as she was about to turn her back on it, the start of another fox-run, much bigger than any of the earlier ones. Big enough even for her to crawl along, Esther calculated in surprise, hauling the cut branch out of the way and dropping onto her hands and knees to investigate.