‘I can’t,’ I say eventually, trying my best to look regretful. ‘Mina finishes at one o’clock and then I’d have to get home to make her some lunch. Thank you for the offer though.’

‘No lunch then,’ Tara says, insistent. ‘You can at least come to the baby group and meet a few of the others. It’ll do you good to get out.’

It’ll do you good to get out. The same advice I keep hearing from Rav, and Naomi, and even from Rav’s mum after she spoke to him a few nights ago. Along with, sleep when the baby sleeps, get into a routine. Everyone seems to be forgetting that the baby is only a few weeks old. We haven’t had time to get out or get into a routine.

‘Everyone is super nice,’ Tara is saying, ‘and I’ve picked up loads of tips from the other mums about how to get the baby sleeping longer at night, weaning tips, things like that.’ She peers at me closely, concern now working its way across her features.

‘Yes, OK,’ I say eventually. ‘OK. That would be nice.’ The boxes, the unpacking, the garden. It can all wait.

Later, in the afternoon sunshine, I play with Mina on the lawn as the baby snoozes on a blanket in the shade, always keeping one eye on her in case she heads towards the pond.

‘Mummy, look.’ Mina toddles towards me, something pinched between her fingers. ‘A jewel.’

I peer closely at her fingers, holding my hand out for whatever it is she has found. She drops it into my outstretched hand – a small misshapen pearl, its creamy sheen masked with smudges of dirt. ‘Where did you find this?’

‘Over there.’ She points towards the edge of the woods, where shadow branches reach their bony fingers across the lawn.

Strange. I roll the gem between my finger and thumb, fancying I can feel the heat of it against my skin. This isn’t the first one found in the house. I think back to the day we got the keys, Mina seeming so much smaller than she is now, the baby a solid five-month bump in my belly.

Rav swings the keys from one finger before inserting it into the lock and pushing the oak door open, the hinges creaking from lack of use. The air in the hallway is damp and musty and I cough as dust hits the back of my throat. Leaving damp footprints on the brick-red tiles from the rain outside, I follow Rav into the kitchen where he fiddles with the dials on the ancient boiler in an attempt to bring some heat into the house. There is the sound of a gas flame igniting and Rav lets out a whoop.