‘Ah, maybe. But a man likes to have a son, you know. Someone he can take to the football, go to the pub with when he grows up. I remember my old dad …’ She gave a strange little smile. ‘Worshipped his boy, he did. I was never the favourite. Not that I minded,’ she added. ‘I understood, you see. You have to make allowances for men; they’re not as strong as us, you know. Not really.’

It seemed a cryptic remark. But I simply nodded and didn’t attempt to question her. She had her own ideas about things – who was I to contradict her? And equally, I didn’t want to say anything that might upset her again.

She turned to look at me suddenly, her eyes twinkling. ‘Would you like to know – what sex the baby is, I mean? I could read your tea leaves.’ She glanced at my cup. ‘Frank didn’t approve, but I’ve never known them to be wrong.’

I felt slightly sick. My chest tightened – not at the thought of finding out about the baby, but of what else a reading might throw up. I wasn’t entirely convinced there was anything in it, but it was a risk I didn’t want to take.

‘No, thank you. I think I’d rather it was a surprise.’

She considered this for a moment. ‘Fair enough. I’d probably be the same. Makes it all the more exciting, I suppose.’

I was anxious to steer the conversation away from myself. ‘Were you from a big family, Mrs Barley?’

She stared out into the garden, her focus fixed firmly on the flowers. ‘My mother lost a couple of boys late into her pregnancies. I was her third child. And then my brother came along two years later. He was the apple of Dad’s eye. I was always closer to my mum. We were very in tune, she and I. Taught me how to pick up on signs, to use my intuition to look into the future and people’s hearts …’ She turned to look at me, smiling sadly. ‘So not a big family, no; but a close one. All gone now, though. I’ve only my memories of them left. Mum’s health was never great and we lost her to pneumonia when I had just turned fifteen, Dad two years later. An awful road accident.’ Her lower lip wobbled as she relived the memory. I was beginning to regret asking. ‘What about your brother?’