I thought a lot about Lucy over the next few days and wondered how she was getting on. Although still very sore and achy, I was gaining a little more strength daily; Elodie was feeding well, and I was getting more used to the breastfeeding. It had been something of a shock initially, and I hadn’t anticipated the ferocity of the suction that could come from such a small mouth. Thankfully it was less uncomfortable than it had been over the first week or two, and although it was difficult to gauge how much milk I was producing, she was clearly getting enough, having already regained her birth weight and a little more besides. She seemed contented and it was a relief that she didn’t cry all the time like some babies, mainly only when she was hungry.

I listened to the advice of the kindly midwife and made sure that I took a nap during the day when Elodie was sleeping. Feeding her myself was convenient and I was glad that I had persevered; during the night I could just lift her into the bed from her crib, which I kept beside me. It was far easier than having to get up and start mixing bottles. So far, so good. Apart from the sleeplessness, and my fluctuating moods, which I’d assumed were par for the course, I felt very fortunate.

The following week, Jack Skyped his parents to see if they were okay, and to check whether they’d settled back into life in Spain after their flight home. Sylvia had gone shopping, the first time she had left the house in days, apparently. Harry said he was fine, but unfortunately Sylvia had been ill with violent stomach pains and vomiting for the first couple of days after leaving our house, which had started on the journey back to the farm in Enville.

‘You might know, she blamed it on the casserole the old lady made,’ he told us with a dismissive shrug. ‘Can’t have been that, obviously, as the rest of us ate it and didn’t have any problems. But she’s got it in her head that’s what caused it and nothing will persuade her otherwise. You know how she can be sometimes.’

We did know how she could be. It was ludicrous to blame Mrs Barley’s cooking and as mean as it may have been, part of me felt the tiniest bit of schadenfreude that Sylvia had been unwell. I was fed up with her self-righteous attitude and it almost felt like someone or something had been teaching her a lesson.

‘But she’s fine now?’ Jack asked, biting his lower lip as he glanced at me.