‘You poor thing. It’s so hard when you’re losing sleep, I know …’ She looked momentarily distracted. ‘Well then, what still has to be done in the kitchen? Point me in the right direction and I’ll roll my sleeves up.’

‘Mrs Barley, you’re our guest. I couldn’t possibly …’

‘Nonsense! I haven’t been up all night with a young baby. Let me help; it’s the least I can do.’

I told her what needed doing and she was off. We looked on, guilty, but full of gratitude. I had actually made a tiramisu the previous day, so at least pudding was sorted. Mrs Barley seemed to be enjoying herself, humming as she bustled about. I lit the fire and leaned back on the settee to feed Elodie, sipping a glass of alcohol-free eggnog as I listened to my Christmas playlist with Jobie at my feet, while Jack went to get showered and dressed. It should all have felt very cosy, but I was struggling to muster any enthusiasm through my fatigue.

Soon we were all seated at the table, enjoying the fruits of Mrs Barley’s labour. She was chatty and upbeat, and the meal was delicious, but I was so tired that conversation felt like a real effort. Thankfully, Jack managed to talk enough for both of us, squeezing my hand from time to time as I smiled and nodded politely, my thoughts very much elsewhere.

After dinner came the exchange of presents. Jack and I had agreed that we would buy each other something in the January sales, although he had surprised me with a pair of beautiful topaz earrings, which made me cry, both because I was touched and also because I felt guilty that I hadn’t got anything to give him in return. We had bought Mrs Barley a new cardigan and some slippers. She seemed surprised but delighted. From the carrier bag that she had brought with her, she produced two parcels wrapped in brown paper and tied with red ribbon; one, heavy and solid, for Jack and myself, and another smaller, featherlight one for Elodie.

I tore the paper from Elodie’s gift to find a small, old-fashioned jointed teddy, with button eyes and a tartan bow tie; well cared for, but clearly not brand new. Ours contained a black velvet drawstring bag. I opened it to find a hefty lump of unfaceted, glittering rock.

‘It’s amethyst. To bring you love and happiness always.’ She beamed. It was a huge, violet crystal, uncut and weighty. We thanked her and I set the stone on the hearth. It actually looked quite beautiful and I was a little choked. These were obviously items she must have already had within her home, but it was moving that she thought enough of us to want to part with them.