Glancing up, Dylan saw that the wet flakes that had been flinging themselves at the windowpane all morning were hardening into proper snow, thick enough to screen out the usual view of the steep hillsides walling in their fold of the valley. A proper white Christmas, then, for once. And he felt good about his gifts for his grandfather: two books, sitting on top of the little chest of drawers behind the door, ready for wrapping when he got around to asking for Sellotape and paper. One was an American novel about a woman who kept bees, and the other a book about the battle to save Malta in the Second World War. The old man was keen on Churchill, and the war in general, having been born the year it started. ‘The gripping story of an epic battle at sea…’ the book blurb said, making it sound almost as good as one of his games. His grandfather’s gift to him, Dylan already knew, was to be five hundred pounds. Lily was getting the same, and he was to be entrusted with both in the form of cheques – a pain, but he wasn’t complaining.

The engine sound had drawn much closer. It had to be Iris, Dylan decided, aware of his spirits lifting. She was as no-nonsense as his grandfather, just as old, but more robust. Their Wednesday exchanges were always brief, but she had a way of radiating kindness and very early on had found a moment to press a piece of paper into Dylan’s hand with her mobile and landline numbers written on it. ‘Any time, you hear? Any time, and I will come.’ She had been a lifesaver with his Amazon deliveries too, including the Christmas books, since defeated satnavs invariably meant everything ended up at the sorting office ten miles away.

When the engine stopped right outside the house, Dylan rolled off the bed and sauntered to the window. The snow was falling thicker than ever, and the Volvo, parked beside the outhouse, was starting to look like a sinking ship. Iris’s van was as robust as its owner. But when Dylan glanced down, it turned out to be a much smaller vehicle parked under the lee of his windowsill. A silver Ford Fiesta, just like his mother’s. It had left tracks on the lane that wound back up the valley, but which were fading rapidly under the falling blanket of snow.

As the occupants of the car spilled out of the doors, Dylan did not move. His heart beat wildly, with a happiness of sorts beside the dread. Everything was going to be terrible. But it was Christmas, and they had come.