Finally, we come to a stop in front of a tall building with a terracotta roof. There are peeling grey painted shutters at the windows. Ben bounds up the three wide steps that lead to the front door and pulls enthusiastically on the bell which I can hear clanging distantly inside the house.

“Open up, Lil!” he calls. “The prodigal son has returned!” He looks younger all of a sudden, and I can imagine him running up these steps as a small, scruffy boy.

A second later the door flies open and Ben is being waltzed around by a lanky woman in a loose white shirt and slacks. Her bobbed hair is a light brown peppered with grey and her tanned face is wrinkled and laughing.

“Ahhh! My boy, my boy!” she exclaims, pulling Ben’s face down and kissing him on the cheeks. “You’ve grown another foot at least.” She slaps him on the shoulder as though she’s telling him off for it.

“And you must be Beatrice.” She turns to me, her expression welcoming, her arms open. Her voice is warm and sing-song American and she pulls me into an enthusiastic hug.

Behind her I see a pretty, slightly round lady who looks like a Dutch porcelain milkmaid.

“Gert!” Ben manages before he’s pulled into another smothering embrace. When he’s released Gert has wet eyes which she dabs at ineffectually with a large white lacy handkerchief.

“Come in, come in!” she says, standing aside so that we can move through the doorway. “Let’s not give the neighbours any more to talk about!”

I step through the door into a dingy hallway. The carpet is worn and there is a row of brass hooks piled at least three deep with coats and hats and scarves in various states of disrepair. Ben chucks our bags down at the bottom of the staircase and dives through a door on our right. I follow behind and catch my breath.

The whole bottom floor on this side of the house has been opened up to make one huge room. The walls are painted burgundy and the floorboards are stripped and polished. At one end of the room is a makeshift kitchen with a couple of counters and an ancient-looking stove. Copper pans hang from the walls beside a tall window that looks over a small green strip of garden. Fragrant, dried herbs hang in bunches from the ceiling.

At the other end of the room are several squashy sofas and some battered armchairs clustered around an incredibly long coffee table which is in turn groaning under the weight of books and newspapers and magazines and dirty wine glasses. There’s an ageing piano in the corner, and the top of that is also covered in books.