‘Vicky was practical,’ Harry went on, easing his legs stiffly. ‘I can see her now in jeans and a T-shirt, always busy with some project, smiling, laughing. She used to plait her hair and it swung as she bustled about.’

A lump jumped into Zia’s throat. He was describing the mum she’d loved so much.

He went on. ‘When all three kids were at school, she took part-time work when it suited her but she lived cheaply. Grew veg. Made clothes. Did our decorating. Men were put off by her living arrangements but that was OK because she was happy with things as they were.’ He smiled tremulously. ‘So was I but you could practically hear Joyce’s teeth grinding. She called our house “The Commune”. We were quite pleased. Communes were cool and there we were, practising communal living like the proper hippies in Totnes.’ He smiled reminiscently. ‘She was a hell of a woman, our Vicky. Lovely. We lived together for eighteen happy years.’ He digressed for several minutes, nostalgic for Vicky’s delicious dinners and how much the three children had adored her.

Presently, Zia brought him back on track. ‘Wasn’t Tori’s father around?’

Harry shrugged. ‘He was some guy she met at a festival – a one-night stand. Vicky’s parents were scandalised that he’d “walked away from his handiwork” but Vicky never made the least effort to find him—’ he gave another of his short, mischievous laughs ‘—because she didn’t know his full name. I expect they were drunk or high when it happened.’

Ursula sniggered.

Slightly wide-eyed at this candid sketch of a young, wild Vicky, Zia just said, ‘Gran made similar “walked away from his handiwork” remarks to me. It was probably a catch-all phrase for the man who’d fathered Vicky’s baby and who’d fathered Tori’s, but I didn’t realise it at the time. I didn’t know Tori existed.’

Sorrowfully, he shook his head. ‘I suspected that would be the case.’ He added with a wry smile, ‘Joyce was fit to be tied when Tori got pregnant in her late teens, just as Vicky had. They were great people, Joyce and Alf, but held traditional views. “Over-sensible”, Vicky used to call them.’

Ursula, who’d been listening quietly, slanted Zia a look. ‘You can be like that.’

‘Gran and Pap brought me up from the age of ten so it’s not surprising,’ Zia protested. A pause for thought, then, ‘I’ve always wondered what kind of a person I’d have become if Vicky had lived longer. Or if Tori had,’ she added huskily. She turned back to Harry. ‘Things might have been less confusing if mother and daughter hadn’t both been named Victoria Chalmers.’