‘I’ve been saving money, investing in a fund for Hope’s future. I don’t know, uni costs, a nice wedding, enough to be able to hand what’s left of the farm over to her in a decent state. But all these plans for the retreat business got me thinking. The farm means so much to me, meant so much to Charlie, not because it’s been our family home for generations, but because it was our family home. Nearly every memory I have is of us being together. Grandad sitting me on his knee while he drove the tractor. Dad showing me how to mend a fence. Helping Mum collect the eggs. Every single type of weather you could think of, every season and time of day, I have a memory for. And while I loved roaming the fields alone, I knew that at some point I’d spot Dad or one of the farmhands in the distance, that Grandma would be in the kitchen or with Mum in the garden. Charlie would be out looking for me as soon as she got bored, which was all the time. It was always about family and then all that got lost. First when Dad died, and we sold most of the land and let go of the animals, but then after Charlie, it was like our family died with her. Especially since Mum doesn’t want to even talk about it, let alone visit.’

‘And burying your head in work meant you didn’t have to think about it.’

Daniel sighed. ‘It’s almost like a part of me wanted to pretend the rest of the farm had gone, too. It was less painful than trying to keep it going by myself. Even if it did mean feeling guilty about letting the Perry ancestors down and being the family failure. But the family hasn’t died. My family is learning to crawl and hold a spoon and wave goodbye. And what are her memories going to be? Of a dad too tired and busy and miserable to even show her how to pick the apples that are right outside her garden gate? Will her memories of the farm be of a rundown mess?’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t let that happen. I’m going to cut down my work days and introduce Hope to her orchard.’

Daniel’s eyes sparkled as he shared out the last of the wine. I flashed back to the exhausted, lifeless man who I had met two months ago, and decided that if getting the Damson Farm orchard up and running would help keep this transformation, then I was with him all the way.

‘Right, I’ve done your question. Time for you to answer mine,’ he said.

I broke off a forkful of tart, trying to work out what he was talking about.

‘Did you have a productive day?’

‘Oh! Okay. Um. Well. Productive in that I’ve confirmed the secret to the Tufted Duck’s success.’ Daniel waited while I ate the chunk of tart, the sharpness biting against the caramelised sweetness in a way that made me decide to ask for the recipe. ‘Mum and Dad know what their customers want, and they stick to it. Face to face contact, minimal online anything. No frills, no fuss, no faffing about. Just plain, simple, exactly the same as every other time they’ve been here, even if that is since 1972. Cheap, and if not quite cheerful, at least it’s clean and excellent quality.’