Approaching Penelope’s house, Caleb imagined each room. The lounge, with recently reupholstered antique sofas, bookshelves stacked with National Geographic magazines. The dining room where, once, he had been invited to eat. Would it burn, that room with its three generations of Royal Doulton collectables? He remembered the beeswax smell of antique furniture polish. Would it make all that dry old furniture more or less likely to burn? Candles, he knew, were made of wax. Because it burned easily, or because it merely melted? There was too much he’d never been curious enough to learn until it was too late.

Penelope’s family had lived here for generations. Her own granny still lived there. Caleb had spoken to the elderly woman only from the doorway to her bedroom, the grandest room he’d seen in the valley. Penelope had thought her grandmother might like him, even if her parents didn’t, because he was a Wharton: ‘His father is Stephen. He’s in the city. A lawyer.’

He was a Wharton. Hearing Penelope, he’d thought he belonged here, even if Dad had left. Penelope’s grandmother smiled at him, acknowledging that.

PHOEBE

How little I knew about my neighbours! Her testimony had been the first time I learned that Rosie’s middle name was Matilda. That her husband died of cancer six years ago. Should I have known these things? Would that have made a difference?

The hearing ended for the day. We stumbled from the courtroom. Fear showered me. ‘We haven’t lost,’ Douglas insisted. ‘This is just the first hurdle in a long race.’

Once, Stephen would also have been infuriated by this cliché. We would have laughed together about Douglas. Now, I was furious with Stephen. He was a lawyer. He should have helped more. ‘I don’t know how you can bear this,’ I said to him.

Beside him, Ivy bristled. Their baby was in day-care, Stephen’s new child, who somehow replaced the one that hadn’t worked out. Rage simmered through me. Knowing it was misplaced, I overcame the urge to push Ivy in front of a wine-tasting minibus.

As though I had willed her there, Penelope waited near my car. I tried not to look at her belly. I couldn’t be rude. She was important. ‘I thought you’d be at uni.’

‘I had lectures this morning. Can we talk?’

Slowly, I nodded. This was a gift. ‘Coffee? Tea?’

‘That’d be great, thanks.’

It was a slow walk before she sank gratefully into a wicker chair in the reopened tea rooms. The room smelled of sawdust and fresh baking. Everything was a replacement, bought with insurance money. ‘There are things I should’ve shown you before,’ Penelope said. ‘They won’t make a difference – but you need to know.’

The waitress was anxious, as if Penelope might deliver her baby here. ‘You don’t have long to go.’