Mrs Barley’s recovery was remarkable, astounding the doctors, who, convinced she wouldn’t make it through the night, had prepared us for the worst. It had been a hellish time. Yet less than three weeks later, she was sitting up in bed, pleading to go home.

Jack and I took Elodie to visit her, bringing freshly cut irises, which we remembered were her favourites. She was thrilled to see us.

‘Hasn’t she grown!’

Her voice was slightly slurred, her smile lopsided. She stroked Elodie’s plump, velvety cheek, accentuating the paper-thin, mottled flesh of her own hand.

‘Mrs Barley, whatever happened there?’

For the first time, probably owing to the absence of the fingerless gloves, I’d noticed a deep scar running along the outer edge of her palm. She withdrew her hand defensively.

‘A dog … bit me,’ she said, abruptly.

Her lips tightened. Any remaining colour in her cheeks drained away, and I was taken aback by the hostility of her expression, which invited no further questioning. I shot a look at Jack, hastily changing the subject.

‘Everybody’s amazed by how well you’re doing,’ I said. ‘You’ll be home in no time. We’ve been feeding the lovebirds. I’m sure they miss you.’

Mrs Barley softened, smiling weakly.

‘And I them. My little darlings.’ She leaned back on her pillows. ‘Have you seen Corvus?’

‘He was sitting on the summer house roof yesterday. I did throw him some bread but I’m not sure if he ate it.’

‘He’ll be wondering where I am, I imagine. We’ve been friends a long time, he and I.’

Making conversation proved taxing for her. Soon, Mrs Barley’s eyes began to close and she drifted off. We crept from her bedside, pausing to speak to the nurses before leaving.

‘It’s awkward,’ explained the ward sister. ‘She’s much improved, but we can’t discharge her if there’s no one at home. It would definitely be better for her mental state, but she really isn’t in a position to look after herself yet. There’s always the option of a convalescent home while she recuperates …’

Jack squeezed my hand gently. I needed no prompting. I thought of everything that Mrs Barley had done for us. And I thought of Auntie Jane.

‘We’ll do it,’ I volunteered. ‘I’m at home all day with Elodie, anyway. Mrs Barley has been so kind to us. It’s the least we can do.’

‘That’s very good of you. It’ll be a long slog, as she needs physio – and someone will have to bring her back here for that, and for check-ups to see how she’s progressing. It’ll be quite a responsibility. Are you sure?’

I nodded resolutely.