‘Just get me my coffee, darling,’ she says, a little less crossly as she turns back to watch the rain.

She doesn’t press us anymore, and by the time we return with the coffees, her mood seems to have brightened. Maybe she trusts us now, with surprises – or perhaps she’s just enjoying the view of gentle sloping fields as she gazes out. The sky has brightened, and by the time we pull into Lancaster station the sun is shining brightly.

We make our way to the taxi rank. ‘Beechwood Care Home please,’ I tell the driver, and ten minutes later, we arrive. It’s a well-kept Victorian house with immaculate gardens and benches set out around a lawn. Lynne, the deputy manager, is expecting us, and when she sees us climbing out of the taxi she beckons us over to the decked area.

There are patio heaters, and bunches of winter pansies on the tables, and residents are sitting around, enjoying pots of tea and cakes in the bright winter sunshine.

‘This is Penny, Nick and Viv,’ Lynne says with a smile, introducing us. She is a rounded, homely-looking woman in a smart blue tunic. ‘We’re just having tea. Would you like to join us?’

We hesitate, and I watch as Penny’s gaze skims along the expectant faces of the residents. Someone pats a vacant chair, inviting her to sit down. An elderly man, who must be well into his nineties, brightens in recognition on seeing her face.

He wasn’t too hard to track down, when I started on it. He has always been active in business, in fashion particularly, and the Girl Friday connection helped with my search.

‘Penny?’ he says, his voice catching.

She opens her mouth to speak and her eyes glint with tears as Nick and I step away. ‘I think Penny will stay for tea,’ I tell Lynne quickly, ‘but we’ll leave her for now.’ And so we walk away, across the grounds, and when I glance back Penny and Saul are embracing. Nick takes my hand as the tears flow freely down my face.

Monday, December 16

Hi, how are things? reads Andy’s text. I have just finished lunch in the work canteen. I haven’t resigned yet; that’ll be next week, when I have signed my contract with the museum.

All good, I reply.

Got time for a chat? he wants to know, so I call him. ‘Just taking a break from packing,’ he says. ‘I’m moving tomorrow. So I just thought I’d see how you’re doing.’

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I say. ‘So, where’s the new place?’

This time, he gives me not only the full address, but precise instructions, in case I might have forgotten the numbering system that seems to apply to most flats: ‘Flat 1/2. So that’s first floor on the right.’

‘What’s it like?’ I ask.