The only reason any of it – Christmas Eve and Christmas Day now, too – had been remotely bearable was thanks to the children. Lily, understandably, remained a little off colour with regard to food, but from the moment they’d trooped back into the house, past the inscrutable expression of their grandfather, she and Dylan had become buoyant, like the reunited siblings they were. In cahoots. Bickering over nonsense, joshing who should get the top bunk in their tiny room, their laughter ringing round the cottage like a jolly soundtrack mismatched to a dark script.

John, to his credit, had helped too, by promptly retreating to his room. Lucas, in something of a trance, had refused tea and taken himself off to the sofa that he insisted would serve as his bed, not hers. Determined to get on top of things, Esther had embarked on a quest for bedding. Meeting with little success, she had gone to consult Dylan, finding him curled up with his sister on the bottom bunk, sharing a set of earphones to listen to something on Lily’s iPad. To her surprise, he had sprung into action at once, clearly eager to show off his familiarity with the house as he’d led the way to various cupboards and a large tea chest, from which he’d plucked out stiff towels and blankets, as well as several impressively creaseless pillowcases and sheets. He’d then helped make up all the beds without being asked, confessing cheerily during the course of it that he liked ironing.

Esther’s amazement had deepened when he’d taken the lead with supper preparations too, bragging about how to make the perfect hollandaise, and why potato salad was best jazzed up with chilli and leeks, between bossing Lily about where to find the plates, glasses, and cutlery for the table. Water glasses only, Esther had remarked wryly when giving a status report to Lucas, whom she’d found still ensconced on the sofa, padded out with a pillow and blanket she had delivered earlier, and staring dejectedly at his phone.

‘Where is he?’ he had asked at once.

Esther flopped into the leather armchair with a heavy sigh. ‘Still in his room. Hiding, I suppose.’

‘Good.’

‘This isn’t easy for him either, Lucas.’

‘I don’t care. I hope he stays there.’

‘When you talked, what did he say exactly?’

‘Exactly what you would expect,’ he muttered. ‘Dylan had come of his own accord. None of it was his fault. Blaming everything – everyone – but himself. I can’t get a bloody signal.’ He shook his mobile. ‘And the Wi-Fi code Dylan gave us doesn’t work. What about you?’

‘Nope. Not a sausage.’ Esther had long given up on hoping for connectivity. Every attempt to update her parents, and Viv, had triggered nothing but clock icons or red exclamation marks.

‘It’s nice to see him, though, isn’t it? Dylan, I mean.’

‘Yes. Yes, it is.’

‘And he seems—’