That night I awoke with a start, shocked into wakefulness by a nightmare that seemed all too real. Cold beads of sweat pricked at my temples; my whole body was rigid with fear. I could hear my heart, thudding through my head like a jungle drum beating out a warning. It was a dream I had had countless times in the past: I was a teenager once more, returning home with leaden feet that dreadful day to find Auntie Jane dead in the hallway. But this time my surroundings began to blur. I realised that I was standing in my neighbour’s summer house. And the cold, unseeing eyes that stared up at me from the ground weren’t those of my aunt.

They were Mrs Barley’s.

CHAPTER 17

It was a glorious, tranquil Sunday in early June. Such a memorable, happy day. There had been no further sightings of Mrs Barley’s intruder and I was beginning to think that they had indeed all been caused by a weird hormonal interlude, some sort of temporary insanity. Things seemed more settled all round – Jack and I were getting on well, and since Elodie’s sleep pattern had improved, so had my own. I was feeling upbeat and optimistic. Thinking back now, I see it as the calm before the storm. All too often, an unpleasant memory seems to be preceded by a joyful one; as though something out there takes glee in luring us into a false sense of security.

Jack and I had enjoyed a leisurely walk into Stratford that afternoon. We took a picnic and spread out a blanket on the grass, beneath a tree close to the river, a stone’s throw from the Royal Shakespeare Theatre. Jobie was on his long lead, straining to reach the swans that wandered, aloof, across the cool turf, almost as if to taunt him, and into the rippling Avon. Jack took Elodie down to the water’s edge and they threw our leftover crusts to the clamouring birds. There was a vibrant atmosphere and the tourists were out in force. We enjoyed ice creams and eventually ambled home, Elodie worn out from her excursion and sleeping in her pram.

Later that evening, with Elodie tucked up in her cot, we sat, sipping wine and watching as dappled shadows cast by the leaves of Mrs Barley’s birch tree danced on our living room wall. Gradually, the sun’s last rays dwindled to nothing, disappearing behind the swaying silhouettes of distant poplars.