Clio opened the doors wider and the children spilled out on to the terrace and raced off to examine the fountain which, I was relieved to see, didn’t appear to be spurting water. Lord only knows how wet Noah could get with a fountain in easy reach.

‘They are such lovely kids,’ said Clio as she watched them chase each other over the manicured lawn. ‘You are such a great mum.’

I wasn’t sure there had been any evidence to suggest this, but I smiled and nodded.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

Clio was quiet for a moment and then said, ‘Come on. I’ll show you where I hang out.’ I looked across the grass towards the kids, worrying that if we moved from this exact spot they would never find me again, but Clio understood at once.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘My kitchen looks out on to this lawn, too. We’ll be able to see them.’

She led me down various corridors until we reached a door with a hand-painted wooden sign hanging from it. In wobbly letters it read ‘Clio’s Corner’ and there were little white daisies painted in a chain all the way round the letters. It was sweet.

‘I made it when I was little,’ explained Clio. ‘It used to hang on my bedroom door in the main house. This place always felt massive to me when I was small and I liked the idea that my bit was just a tiny little sanctuary. Nothing’s changed really. I got a bit bigger, but the house can still feel overwhelming. Do you understand what I mean?’

I thought that I might. I never felt safer than when I’d locked the front door of my tiny house, shutting the world and all its troubles outside. Maybe this was just Clio’s equivalent?

Clio opened the door and led the way into her part of the house. This felt different to the Hall proper. Although the rooms were still considerably larger than in my house, they were far less grand than the ones I’d seen so far. The narrow hallway led on to a sitting room that was painted in a deep raspberry pink. Two large sofas festooned with throws and cushions in bright Indian fabrics dominated the space and the floor was covered with a rag rug that reminded me of the one that Mum’s Auntie Kathleen had had in her kitchen.

‘I made that,’ said Clio, nodding proudly at the rug. ‘I went on a course in Morpeth and learned how.’

‘It’s lovely,’ I said, but it struck me as odd that Clio, who could no doubt have afforded the best rug that money could buy, chose instead to adopt a style used by working women to recycle worn-out clothing.