‘Sounds perfect. I give my wholehearted endorsement and support to the Damson Farm community orchard.’

He grabbed my hand, pulling it up to kiss the palm. ‘You did realise the date of the launch?’

‘I know! Our first proper guests arrive two days before Damson Day.’

‘It’ll be a busy month.’

‘Right now, keeping busy might be the only thing that keeps me sane.’

And there it was again, the shadow from my past life leering over us, forever hanging there ominously.

The next few weeks were indeed jam-packed with our joint ventures. For the first two weeks Daniel was still working full-time while trying to get things started with the orchard, and with Becky and I getting everything ready for the upcoming retreat, we had little time or energy to do much more than share the odd meal, and hand over Hope with a quick kiss and a catch-up. However, as the days rolled by, things were gradually taking shape, transforming before our eyes, and the joy of seeing the finishing touches, final programmes printed and the pantry overflowing with ingredients ready for both events was exhilarating.

An army of locals had been pruning, planting and constructing in the orchard, like some amateur farming version of DIY SOS. There were now sturdy fences and a beautiful new gate opening onto the footpath that led through the meadow and along the river into the village. By the second week, there were raised beds and a pagoda with benches and tables for the educational area. It turned out that Ziva’s husband, John, was an admin whizz, and he spent hours looking into charity applications and setting up a board of trustees. Various staff from the pubs and takeaways made regular trips bearing drinks and trays of sandwiches or pizza. There was a clear sense of rivalry between the different eateries, but it was gradually becoming a friendly one, and if it meant the food grew better by the day, no one was about to intervene.

One of the teenagers bashed out a basic website, and where she’d created a bookings page for carpentry workshops, a range of gardening and horticultural classes and Ziva’s beekeeping for beginners, the places were getting filled quicker than she could organise them.

Daniel was reborn. His face shone, he laughed with new vigour and strode about the farm as if he finally owned the place, and loved every inch. Hope was, if possible, even more delighted. She spent hours outside, transfixed by the sawing and sowing, charming everyone who stopped to say hello when she was confined to her pushchair, and inspecting every leaf and ladybird in the times she was free to explore. She grew more like her mother every day.

Becky and I had to reluctantly miss out on this stage of the community reformation, although Becky minded a lot less during the first week, when Luke was still finishing off the work inside, than she did once he’d joined the orchard volunteer crew. The first day he was out there, she spent a whole afternoon cleaning the windows on the orchard side of the house, and found every excuse going to ‘nip outside’. Despite this, we were making fantastic progress, and as each room was signed off and various plans were finalised, our excitement blossomed.