‘No, Esther.’ He turned to look at her, his eyes blinking in a way that brought her mother’s recent expressions of concern to mind. ‘I’d be lost without her,’ he said solemnly. He was getting more sentimental, Esther reflected affectionately, and it had been a long day – lots of food and wine, with no chance of a snooze.

‘Shall we go back up, Dad? Les and Virginia are still here, and we could have a cup of tea—’

‘She left me once. I had to beg her to come back.’ He had turned his gaze on the fire.

Esther kept hold of his arm, her shock matched only by a deep reflex of reluctance to hear more. ‘Dad, I am sorry, but please… you don’t have to—’

‘She did come back, and every day – every day, Esther – I have thanked God for it. I’ve held my tongue, but families stick together, love, that’s the thing. You and Lucas – it’s never too late, is what I am trying to say. Not with forgiveness.’

Esther let go of his arm. Inside she was shouting that he had no bloody right – to make her feel worse than she did already, let alone spill private details that she had no wish, or need, to hear; but he was old, and it was her mother’s birthday, and Christmas just a breath away…

‘And then Dylan would come home,’ he went on, ‘I’m sure of it. The poor lad, I’ve been so…’ He broke off, choking. ‘I miss him, love. I’m worried about him.’

‘Me too, Dad,’ she said heavily, at least understanding the source of his pain.

‘I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.’ He pulled out a large handkerchief and blew his nose in two short blasts.

‘I know you mean well, Dad.’ Esther patted his back. Inside she felt turned upside down. Affronted as well as shocked. She had fought so hard not to feel that a failed marriage made her a failure. But maybe she was wrong. Maybe Dylan would be with them if she had stuck it out. ‘We just have to hang onto the positives,’ she muttered, grabbing at the platitude and then being rescued by one of Astrid’s ear-splitting yodels – her mother’s preferred method of urgent summons to anyone at the bottom of the garden. Her father came to life with almost comical speed, stamping out the fire and hallooing that he was on his way, between checking over his shoulder that Esther was hot on his heels. He was obedient to the core, and only now, aged forty-eight-and-a-half, did she have an inkling as to why.

Her mother was waiting for them just inside the sitting room, a cardigan draped over her shoulders, but still shivering pointedly. ‘Shoes off. You missed Les and Virginia. And now Lily’s being sick.’