I left Ned checking out the arrangement of his new venture and went back to the lodge. As I closed the door and glanced back at the row of huts, I couldn’t help thinking how perfectly they sat in the yard.

There was more than enough room for them and they looked as though they’d been there for far longer than five minutes. Even though I didn’t know exactly what they were going to be stocked with yet, in my experience bespoke designers meant quality, so they’d be a great draw. If Ned played his cards right then Wynter’s Trees might well turn out to be one of the top go-to Christmas attractions in the area.

I hung Dad’s coat back on its hook and picked up the framed photo of him and Mum from the bookcase next to the log burner. I wondered what Dad would make of the changes Ned was making. He would have most likely been upset to see the Chevy taken out of service, but he would have accepted it on the environmental grounds Ned had flagged up.

‘Waste not, want not,’ I could imagine him saying as he admired it on display.

He would have loved that the vehicle still had some purpose and would have been the first to have his photo taken standing next to it. And even though Mum knew nothing of Wynter’s Trees, she would have adored the huts. I could remember her shopping with care and opting to buy from small producers because they offered something unique. She had been shopping local, I realised, long before it became a trendy buzzword.

‘Good god!’ said Ned, bursting through the door a little later and bringing with him a cold rush of air. ‘It’s absolutely pouring out there.’

He was soaking wet again, only clothed this time and Bandit, who was by his side, didn’t look much drier. Ned shook his jacket out on the veranda and then gave the dog a rub with a towel which was kept next to the door for that purpose.

‘I hadn’t noticed,’ I said, as Bandit skittered over to me, his claws scrabbling to grip the wooden floor, but I could see Ned was right.

‘I hope it stops soon, otherwise tonight will be a wash out.’ He tutted.

‘Tonight?’

‘It’s bonfire night and there’s a party happening on the beach.’

‘Oh right,’ I mused. ‘I seem to remember your dad mentioning a firework party.’

Since finishing work, I’d rather lost track of the date which felt strange, given that my entire working life had been governed by the calendar.

‘No fireworks,’ Ned elaborated, ‘because you never know where the waste will end up, but there’s going to be a bonfire, sparklers and some fabulous food. Do you fancy it? You’d be most welcome. You might run into someone you know.’