As it was important for Rea to be in control, Laurel nodded, though she hissed back, ‘You can do it. I’ll be with you.’ She flirted with the idea of asking Rea to come just as far as the gate with them now, to wave them off with their breath freezing on the air as they set off on their Christmas wreath deliveries. But, no, it was wrong to spring things on someone who suffered with panic.

Daisy skipped into the kitchen, bulging black bin liners swinging from each hand. Her sweatshirt said: Bright as a button – but don’t press me. ‘Here are the eight to drop off tonight. I’ve made raffia loops to hang them by.’

‘Great,’ said Laurel. ‘We need to wrap up warm. It’s like Siberia outside.’ Soon she was done up like a parcel in coat, hat, mittens, scarf and snow boots, trying to find a comfy way to carry one of the black bin bags and its prickly contents. ‘Ouch.’ She sucked a fingertip. ‘Maybe we should take the car.’

Daisy dropped one of her bags in dismay. ‘Aw, Auntie Laurel. We’re going to look at everyone’s Art December windows on the way. Most people were putting their displays up today. Once we get to The Angel we’ll get rid of nearly half of the wreaths in one go,’ she wheedled.

Laurel did not feel like trekking round Middledip to admire village art displays and fairy lights. She felt more like a long, hot bath and a big glass of wine, hoping that tomorrow she’d be able to recapture the joyous dancing of Everyday Woman. But she lived at The Nookery for the purpose of supporting those she loved so she sighed in acceptance, and craned her neck to read Daisy’s list on her phone. ‘Top Farm Road, Rotten Row, Port Road and two in Great Hill Road. I hope we get rid of the prickliest first.’

They set off in the iron frost. Icicles clung to gutters and the roadside bushes had turned to fantastic displays of lacy ice where cars passing through puddles misted them with spray. A pond in a front garden was cracked like a broken windowpane, the fountain on its last burbles before its jet froze solid. Daisy somehow seemed able to ignore the knife-like wind keening down Main Road and the way it tried to snatch the bin bags from their hands. She happily searched out Art December windows, flushed not just with the temperatures but with the success of her Google map, which led them to displays of paintings, drawings and cheery knitted scarves.

Daisy pointed at a small watercolour and murmured discreetly, ‘Is that one meant to be a Christmas tree or a hedgehog?’