Jobie greeted us effusively as we came through the door, his tail slicing the air. He bounded up to Alfie, who squealed, wrapping his chubby arms round Lucy’s leg in fright. She prised him away.

‘It’s all right, darling, he won’t hurt you. He’s a nice doggy. See?’ She fussed the dog, who responded by licking her hand, then Alfie’s face. The little boy chuckled.

‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

Lucy pulled a face. ‘No thanks. I really can’t drink tea at the moment – it’s one of the things that makes me want to heave just now. Not too fond of coffee, either. But a glass of water would be great.’

I tipped a decent number of the olives into a plastic-lidded container and found a cookie for Alfie, who seemed highly delighted. We went into the living room. I switched on the TV and scrolled through to the children’s channel for the little boy, who sat on the rug hugging his biscuit. Lucy looked out into the garden, peering down towards the summer house.

‘How are you getting on with the old dear next door?’ she asked.

‘Mrs Barley? She’s lovely. She’s been really helpful, actually. I feel quite sorry for her, living there all alone.’

‘Hmm, her husband’s been dead a good few years now, hasn’t he? I’m twenty-eight and it was before my time.’ She paused. ‘I think my mum remembers him. I’ve lived in Avoncote all my life and Mrs Barley’s always been a bit of an enigma, keeps herself to herself. When we were little, we used to pretend she was a witch and play rat-a-tat ginger on her. Dare each other to shout swear words through her letterbox. A bit mean, I suppose. But kids will be kids.’

I nodded in agreement. Children can be vicious – I knew from experience. I was an only child, the product of a loveless marriage. My self-centred father walked out on us when I was only four. I found out some years later that he had moved to the United States, to start a new life in Chicago with the American woman he had been dating. We never saw him again. Although she didn’t say as much, I don’t think my mother ever wanted to. When I was very young, particularly when Mum was in a bad way, I would sometimes pray that he would come for me, whisk me away like some knight in shining armour. I thought, hoped, that as he had chosen my name, Stina, after his beloved Swedish grandmother, I must have been special to him once. But of course, he never did return. By the time I was twelve, I had resigned myself to the fact that he wouldn’t ever be coming back. It hurt to think I was of so little significance to him.