Daisy took back her phone. ‘Isn’t she awesome? She says her work is expressionist, which means the colours reflect mood rather than being real-life, and a little bit impressionist because she doesn’t exactly paint what we’d see.’

‘I’m certainly impressed,’ he said, trying a feeble play on words. ‘I didn’t realise she’d be staying in the village.’

Daisy took the phone back and fiddled with it. ‘Mum needs a bit of support, y’know?’

‘I know,’ he agreed gently. That Rea Grove had become what Melanie at Booze & News declared ‘a recluse’ was well known in the village. Daisy had told him their GP had diagnosed agoraphobia and Rea now worked from home and had her shopping delivered. Poor Daisy seemed to accept the situation on the surface but he suspected she was bewildered underneath. All he could do to help was be her friend. Friends helped you feel secure.

‘I want to make my living from making awesome things like Auntie Laurel,’ Daisy said, pulling her hood closer as she turned to leave.

‘Did she do art at uni?’ Grady picked up his door keys and followed her out. The snow remained now only in shady nooks.

Daisy sent him a suspicious look. ‘’S’pose.’ She so obviously anticipated the You need to get the grades in your GCSEs and A-levels to go to uni that he didn’t say it. It would only make him the bad guy and she didn’t need telling.

Outside, the November afternoon was already turning to dusk. ‘Will you be OK to walk home?’ he asked.

She cocked an incredulous eyebrow. ‘Erm … we’re in the village.’ She added a, ‘See you later,’ and in a few strides she’d disappeared around the corner into Main Road.

Left alone with his own thoughts, Grady decided he wasn’t yet in the mood for the silence of Mistletoe Cottage. He’d drop in at The Angel Community Café and see if Carola was behind the counter.

Sure enough, he found her amongst espresso machine steam, fading blonde locks neatly twisted behind her head and a smart black polo and trousers beneath her white apron. He supposed she was in her late fifties now but she had the energy of a teenager. She slid a Belgian bun onto a plate and took payment from Alexia Kennedy – Alexia Hardaker now, he reminded himself – ahead of him in the queue, then beamed at Grady. ‘We need to sort out a Middledip Christmas Fair meeting,’ she said in her quick, efficient manner. Beside the counter were notices for a Christmas raffle and a Christmas pensioners’ singalong.

‘Thinking the same,’ he agreed, ordering a latte.