Unfortunately, my freshly formed plan didn’t get off to the best of starts. Maya’s truck was nowhere to be seen the next morning and neither was she. I initially panicked that she hadn’t turned up because of what I’d said in the pub, but then David reminded me it was Sunday and she wouldn’t be in. I wanted to ring her mobile but he said he couldn’t let me have the number, which was fair enough. Thwarted in my quest, I headed back to the lodge and, noticing the date on the calendar, grabbed an apron, determined to make the most of the day, in spite of the less than satisfactory start.

‘What’s going on?’ Ned frowned, when he came back for lunch and surveyed the chaos in the kitchen. ‘It smells like Christmas in here.’

His expression was transformed as the heady fruit and alcohol enhanced scent filled his nostrils.

‘Good,’ I said, blowing my fringe out of my face. ‘It’s supposed to.’

Even my desire to embrace stir-up Sunday hadn’t been straightforward, because I’d forgotten the kitchen cupboards wouldn’t be stocked in the same way Dad used to keep them. However, rather than give up, I’d speedily swapped the apron for my car keys and dashed to the nearest supermarket for supplies. My little banger appreciated the extra run and since arriving back, I’d been going great guns, hence the fabulous festive scent. The whole lodge smelt reminiscent of Christmases past, so I knew I’d got something right.

‘What exactly are you doing?’ Ned asked, picking up Mum’s ancient recipe book which was open on the counter and covered in a light dusting of flour.

‘Playing my part in making my last Christmas here memorable,’ I told him, my voice cracking as I added. ‘I want to make my dad proud, too.’

Ned put the book down again and I knew he was watching me. I kept my eyes firmly fixed on the huge bowl of rum soaked fruit I was mixing. My arm was beginning to throb, but I didn’t stop. I didn’t want to do anything that might betray the mystifying feelings I was doing my utmost to control.

‘It’s stir-up Sunday,’ I elaborated. ‘Mum always used to make our cake and pudding today and after she died, Dad carried on, so in line with the tradition, I thought I would too.’

The words came out in a rush.

‘What size are you making?’ asked Ned.

I was pleased he hadn’t said something sympathetic.

‘This isn’t for just one pudding,’ I told him. ‘I thought they would make nice parting gifts. I’m going to give everyone in the huts one, along with your dad, Nick and Edith and Maya, of course.’