A Patchwork Family

by Cathy Bramley

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Love, friendship and family come in all different shapes and sizes.

Gina has been going with the flow for years—she'd rather have an easy life than face any conflict. She runs her childminding business from her cottage at the edge of The Evergreens, a charming Victorian house and home to three octogenarians who have far too much fun for their age.

But when The Evergreens is put up for sale, Gina and the other residents face losing their home. To protect her business and save her elderly friends from eviction, Gina must make a stand and fight for the first time in her life.

As Gina's ideas for saving The Evergreens get bigger and bolder, she starts to believe it might just be possible. The only thing is, does she believe in herself?

Release date: September 8, 2020

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 448

Sample

Chapter One

This had to be one of the worst ideas I’ve ever had. I say ‘one of’ because the time I pierced my own ear with Rosie Featherstone’s earring in the girls’ toilets did not go well. I was still scarred. So was she, come to that.

But agreeing to lunch in a cosy booth for two with Eric, of all people, on today, of all days, was definitely up there. If I’d known he was taking me somewhere smart, I’d have changed out of my scruffy dungarees and stripy T-shirt. Or better still refused his invitation altogether. It was mid-September and I’d planned on spending some time sorting out my patch of back garden at Welcome Cottage while the weather was still decent. But Eric had turned up with an official-looking envelope and insisted on lunch out at Vino’s wine bar, near our old flat.

I leaned away from him as tense as a coiled spring while he wrestled with the cork in a bottle of bubbly. He was starting to sweat and had already refused help, rather curtly, I thought, from the wine waiter who was now loitering nearby, looking smug. I flinched as the cork finally popped. Foam spurted out of the bottle and Eric, looking very pleased with himself, poured us both a glass.

‘Cheers!’ He beamed, clinking his glass against mine.

‘I’m really not sure bubbly is appropriate under the circumstances,’ I said, watching him knock back a third of his in one.

He nudged me in the ribs. ‘Oh come on, Gina, let’s go out with a bang.’

‘Where have I heard that before?’ I said, taking my first sip.

He grinned. He’d said it on the day I moved out. He didn’t get his bang then and he wasn’t going to get it now either.

‘Can’t blame a bloke for trying.’

I laughed at the look of cheerful resignation on his face. ‘Go on then, cheers.’

At the end of the day, we’d had some good times. It was all too easy to remember the reasons we’d split up but it hadn’t all been bad. Eric was all right really, just not right for me. I was glad we could still share a laugh.

‘Thanks for coming,’ he said, his voice earnest for a moment. ‘I thought we should mark the occasion. And you were always saying that every milestone should be celebrated, big or small.’

‘Every positive milestone, yes,’ I conceded.

Especially for children. A swimming badge, a good effort in a spelling test, a new reading level reached, even a successful potty result for the younger ones, every achievement was a reason to celebrate. A bit of encouragement went a long way towards building confidence and self-belief, I found.

A passing waitress with black hair and a pale complexion clocked the bottle of Cava and stopped at our table. ‘Aww, look at you two! Celebrating something?’

‘Er, no,’ I said quietly, willing her not to draw attention to us.

‘Yes, actually.’ Eric put his arm around my shoulders and returned her smile. I stifled a groan. ‘This is a very special day for us.’

The waitress said ‘aww’ again, informed us about the soup of the day and left us with lunch menus.

‘What did you say that for?’ I whispered, shrugging him off. The woman at the next table was nudging her male companion. ‘People are looking. They’ll be waiting for you to pop the question next.’

He set his menu aside. ‘I think we should be very proud of ourselves. We’ve succeeded where many couples have failed.’

‘We’ve just got divorced. I hardly count that as one of life’s greatest achievements.’

‘Amicably, Gina,’ he said, covering my hand with his. ‘That’s an achievement. So thank you for making this break-up so easy for me.’

I gave a bark of laughter and slid my hand away. ‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’

‘Of course.’ He frowned.

‘That’s like saying I was such a bad wife that it was a relief to be rid of me.’

I had made it easy for him, I supposed. Even though the decision to split was mutual, I’d let him dictate the terms as if I was the guilty party. Going along with things was a bad habit of mine and one I had every intention of correcting. If I ever got married again, I’d do things very differently. Find my voice and not let myself be railroaded into things simply because I was easy-going.

My ex-husband looked confused. ‘I just mean that if I had to get divorced from anyone, I can’t think of another woman I’d rather do it with.’

‘Eric!’ My jaw dropped. ‘When you’re in a hole, stop digging!’

Getting divorced had been the most unsettling, uncomfortable and sad thing I’d ever done in my life. We didn’t have children or even pets to negotiate over, and there was no one else involved on either side, which kept the process straightforward. But it had still been painful, especially when I’d left our lovely flat. He’d been all for me staying until it was sold, but I hadn’t trusted either of us to live together platonically: him because he’d without a doubt have tried to persuade me that it was silly one of us sleeping on the sofa when we’d been sleeping in the same bed for years, and one thing would have inevitably led to another … And me because although I did still love him, he drove me absolutely bonkers and I needed a clean break. As it was, we were now officially divorced and we’d escaped with our dignity intact. So I supposed he had a point; it was an achievement of sorts.

‘Your hair looks nice, by the way,’ he said, obviously deciding that a change of topic was the safest bet, and then craned his head to look at a tray of food being carried past on its way to another table.

I tucked a wavy strand behind my ear self-consciously. ‘Thanks.’

I’d had it dark brown with streaks of purple over the summer, but since then it had gone back to its russety-gingery-blonde which felt just right now the mornings had a crisp and cool autumnal bite to them.

‘I’d almost forgotten what your natural colour was,’ he continued, peering at my centre parting. ‘The greys are a shock though. Still, bravo to you for embracing it.’ He raised a glass and slurped. ‘It’s to be expected, I suppose; you’re in your mid-thirties, after all.’

‘I’m thirty-four,’ I said, trying not to grit my teeth. ‘And there are only a couple of silver threads. You, on the other hand, already had grey flecks at the side when I met you six years ago.’

‘Yes but I’m a—’ He spotted my arched eyebrow and presumably the word ‘man’ died on his lips. He cleared his throat. ‘A boring old bugger where fashion is concerned. And I haven’t changed my hairstyle since school.’

I pinched my lips together. That wasn’t strictly true: he’d once tried to emulate one of David Beckham’s longer styles, but had had it all cut off when his mates started to call him Shaggy and sang ‘Scooby-Dooby-Doo, where are you?’ every time he entered a room.

‘Whereas your hair’s been more colours than Joseph’s technicolour dream coat,’ he continued.

I’d been dyeing my hair since I was sixteen in an unsuccessful attempt to attract my parents’ attention. Neither of them had even commented on it.

‘The kids love my hair, especially the girls, who thought I looked like a mermaid when it was green and blue in spring.’

‘A mermaid.’ Eric chuckled. ‘I can imagine what your parents would think of that.’

‘Nothing surprises them anymore.’ I put a hand over my glass as Eric tried to top it up. It still hurt that anything I did seemed to pale into insignificance compared to my elder brother Howard’s exploits, so these days I just didn’t tell them much.

‘Is the agency doing well?’ I said, swallowing the feeling of injustice which always followed thoughts of Mum and Dad.

‘Booming!’ he replied, looking pleased with himself.

Eric had set up Teachers On Demand before I met him. He’d been working for a general recruitment agency but he realised that Derbyshire had an unmet need for someone to provide temporary teachers to schools in the area. Over the years he’d established the business as the specialist in its field.

‘Good for you.’ I raised my glass, pleased for him. ‘And September used to always be so quiet.’

‘Well, that part of the business is quiet.’ He waved a hand. ‘It’s the start of term. Most teachers are still turning up to work. It won’t be long, though.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Stress, sickness bugs, coughs and colds, maternity … They’ll be dropping like flies soon enough.’

‘Poor teachers.’ I shuddered, remembering it all too well.

He shrugged. ‘It’s business. Nobody likes a quiet week, let alone a quiet month. Still, I’m not resting on my laurels.’ He twitched in his seat and leaned forward. ‘I’ve got a chance to expand and diversify. It’s risky but I reckon it will be worth it. Good job you’re not working for me anymore.’

‘With you,’ I corrected. ‘I was a director. And I still own ten per cent.’

Eric was the managing director but when I’d agreed to join the business instead of being a supply teacher on his register, he’d assured me that I’d have autonomy in my role liaising with the teachers while he managed the school contracts, and that we’d leave work at the office door and not take it home. Unfortunately, it hadn’t quite worked out like that.

‘Yeah, well, all I’m saying is that if you were still there you’d pooh-pooh this opportunity because you’d want us to steer away from risk, and then we’d miss out on growing the business and making more profit.’

He had a point; I was all for not rocking the boat.

‘And you’d have listened to my opinion, would you?’ I said. ‘That would be a first.’

‘Probably not.’ He had the good grace to laugh. ‘Anyway, let’s not argue. Not today of all days. And about that ten per cent. I know we’d both have preferred a clean break, but I couldn’t quite raise all the money I needed to buy you out. But rest assured, as soon as I’ve got the cash, I’ll have those shares off you.’

‘I know you will,’ I said kindly. I’d been tempted to simply relinquish my shares in the business, but my solicitor had insisted on securing my rightful share of our joint estate. To give Eric his due, he’d begged, borrowed and all but stolen to pay me off. He worked hard and I was in no doubt that it wouldn’t be long until he’d earned enough to buy me out completely. And in the meantime, in between the divorce settlement and the shares, on paper I was sitting on quite a tidy nest egg. I’d never had so much money in my life.

‘And you? How is the world of chicken nuggets, playdoh and nappies?’ Eric twirled the stem of his glass between his long fingers. Strong index finger and thumb, Mum had observed the first time he’d met my parents, meaning, she said, that he was ambitious and dedicated to his career, which pleased Eric no end. Dad had chuckled and said he’d have his work cut out with me then, seeing as I’d abandoned my career and would happily spend my life on one long holiday. It had been on the tip of my tongue to argue – I’d worked my way around the world to fund my travels – but Eric had covered my hand with his in sympathy and I’d let it pass, as usual.

‘Flourishing, thanks,’ I said, ignoring his teasing tone, ‘I’m almost up to capacity.’

Technically I was allowed to look after up to eight children, but I stopped at six. My house wasn’t big enough for any more than that. I prayed for dry weather on busy days so that we could spill out into the garden. And I could only ever have two little babies, because taking more than a double buggy on the school run would be a nightmare.

‘Well done, it’s perfect for you, childminding,’ said Eric in a kindly, but slightly patronising way. ‘Easy life, no stress.’

I was used to Eric being dismissive of my career choice, but after we split up, starting a childminding business had actually been the best decision I’d ever made. Although I had trained as a teacher, I’d only lasted in the classroom for a couple of years. I’d loved the kids and thrived on seeing them learn, but I’d hated the teaching system; it broke my spirit to see them pigeon-holed and pushed through hoops to pass exams as young as six.

‘I’d hardly call looking after up to eight different children a day of varying ages easy,’ I retorted. ‘I’d like to see you do it.’

‘No thanks,’ he said, wincing. ‘But if you’re up to capacity, the business – if you call it that – can’t go anywhere, can it?’

I bristled. ‘Yes, I do call it that. And every business can go somewhere.’

He looked sceptical. ‘That tiny cottage of yours puts an automatic limit on the size of your business. No need to think ahead, or plan for expansion. It just won’t happen unless you move.’

‘Funny you should say that.’ I inspected a fingernail. ‘I’m thinking of expanding. Barnaby is crying out for more childcare. I might even take on an assistant.’

My breath caught; where had that come from? Only yesterday, during our morning trip to feed the ducks, I’d been thinking how happy with my lot I was. I had a delightful bunch of children to look after, I lived in a picture-perfect cottage with lovely neighbours and though I’d never be rich, I relished every messy, sticky, noisy day of it.

Eric laughed. ‘Where would you put them? I’ve seen the room you use now; you’d be like the old woman who lives in a shoe.’

‘I have plans, Eric, big plans.’ I tapped my nose mysteriously, half expecting it to have doubled in length, Pinocchio-style. ‘And now that my half of the divorce settlement is through, there’ll be no holding me back.’

Once I’d worked out exactly what those big plans were, that was.

He blinked at me, stunned. ‘Good for you.’

‘And about those shares of mine in the agency,’ I said slyly. ‘If, as you say, the business is about to hit the big time, my shares will go up in value too. That ten per cent could end up costing you a fortune.’

‘Eh, what?’ Eric spluttered with shock.

I opened the menu and hid behind it, laughing to myself; he hadn’t expected that.

‘Are you ready to order?’ Our waitress had returned. She pulled a notepad and pen out of her apron pocket.

‘Give me five seconds.’ I flipped open the menu and scanned the ‘light bites’ section. The sooner this lunch was over, the quicker I could get back to my new and extremely happy single life.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Eric, evidently already recovered from my announcement, turned on his charm. ‘We’re busy catching up on old times.’

He handed his menu back without looking at it. ‘We’ll have the sharing platter. I saw one going past for another table, Gina, it looked amazing.’

I stared wordlessly at him. And that, in a nutshell, was why we were no longer married. He made the decisions and because I was easy-going he expected me to fall in line with them.

‘Spanish meats or seafood?’ the waitress asked, pencil poised.

‘Seafood,’ said Eric. ‘She likes seafood.’

‘Thank you.’ The waitress tried to take my menu from me but I held on to it. I did love seafood, but the days of Eric dictating what I ate were over.

‘Actually, she’d like to choose for herself. I’d like the grilled halloumi burger please,’ I said, folding the menu and handing it back to her.

The waitress grinned. ‘Good choice. And you, sir? Still going with the platter?’

‘Well if my wife’s going to be awkward,’ Eric grumbled.

‘Ex-wife,’ I said.

‘I meant that,’ he said sulkily.

The waitress and I exchanged amused looks while Eric glanced round the wine bar, presumably to see what the other diners were having because he hadn’t looked at the menu.

‘We’re celebrating our divorce. Hence the Cava,’ I told the waitress.

She grinned. ‘Definitely the day to have what you want, then.’

‘Eric, why don’t we both have the halloumi burger,’ I suggested. ‘With a side order of onion rings for you.’

He agreed to that and the waitress departed to put our order into the kitchen.

‘That was embarrassing,’ he muttered. ‘Having you and Morticia ganging up on me like that.’

‘It was no less than you deserved.’

His brow furrowed. ‘You used to let me choose for us both.’

‘It was easier that way. But it wasn’t necessarily right for me.’

I gazed at my ex-husband. We were both to blame for the breakdown of our marriage; what had attracted us to each other had ended up being the things which drove us apart. We’d done the right thing by parting and the future looked rosy enough for us both. And it was true what he’d said earlier: we’d achieved what many divorcing couples failed to do: remain friends. He’d been an important part of my life for most of the last decade and I had no regrets, but my days as Mrs Evans were over. I was a Moss again and it was time to see what I wanted from this new life.

‘You’ve changed,’ said Eric glumly. He knocked back the best part of a glass of Cava.

‘I have, haven’t I?’ I said, pleased with myself. ‘And I’ve got a feeling this is only the beginning.’

Chapter Two

The next day was Sunday and after a morning run along the towpath, I settled on the sofa to ring my parents. They’d moved to an apartment in a retirement complex in the Lake District. I didn’t see them often, but I made a point of checking in with them weekly and keeping them abreast of my news. Although these days, it was the other way around; their social life sounded far more exciting than mine.

I needn’t have got comfy; they were rushing off to do a litter-pick around Windermere but Mum did have time to quiz me about Eric.

‘How are you feeling, now that … you know …’ She cleared her throat.

‘Now that we’re officially divorced?’ I finished for her.

A bit bereaved, actually; divorce was a sort of death. Mine and Eric’s relationship was dead and buried. I’d even had a little cry yesterday after I’d got back from lunch.

‘I’m fine,’ I said brightly. ‘Absolutely fine. Onwards and upwards.’

I wasn’t about to tell her the truth. I knew she and Dad were disappointed in me. In their eyes, I didn’t have a successful career, and now I didn’t have a successful marriage either. I’d failed and I felt like I’d let them down.

‘That’s the spirit,’ said Mum, sounding awkward. ‘Because divorce is nothing to be ashamed of these days. And it’s not too late to find someone new; you could still have children.’

‘I’ve got a house full of children,’ I reminded her. ‘And soon I’m going to be too busy for someone new.’

‘Oh?’

Just then, Dad interrupted her to ask where the yellow hi-vis litter-picker vests were and she rang off before I could give her the same story about expanding that I’d given Eric.

It had been a spur of the moment announcement yesterday; I’d been as surprised about it as Eric. But the more I thought about it, the more it occurred to me that maybe now would be a good time to expand. Maybe I should commit to something wholeheartedly and change my ‘this will do for now’ mindset. I’d rented my cottage and started the business without much thought. Both good decisions, but now that my divorce was final, I should really start making proper plans.

I’d fallen in love with Welcome Cottage as soon as I’d set eyes on it in the estate agent’s window. It belonged to The Evergreens, a large Victorian house perched halfway up a hill on the edge of the village. It was originally the gatekeeper’s lodge and stood at the entrance to the long drive up to the main house. It had two precarious chimney stacks, diamond-paned mullion windows and pretty white scalloped-edged weatherboards like a lace handkerchief an old lady might keep up her sleeve.

Violet Rose, my elderly landlady, lived in The Evergreens with two of her friends. She said I was her favourite tenant, and she, I’d told her, was my favourite landlady.

I’d been here for two years and although it was tiny, it had been the perfect haven for me to have a fresh start and find my feet as a single woman.

Money had been tight up until now and so adding homely touches had had to be done on a budget. But when your working day is spent scraping baked beans off walls and regretting adding blue food colouring to the Play-Doh, there was no point in ever aiming for show-home standards. Ikea had been my friend while I was furnishing the cottage: easy-clean tables and chairs, washable sofa covers, endless plastic crates of books and toys, and cheap and cheerful rugs, cushions and curtains. The decor was a little at odds with the Victorian architecture, with its high ceilings, tiled floors, elegant architraves and the original fireplace, but needs must when you have an army of pint-sized warriors rampaging through your home on a daily basis.

Upstairs was more tranquil. My bedroom was a fusion of old and new: throws and cushions in shades of grey and pink on the deep window sill where I liked to sit and read, antique wooden furniture salvaged from my parents’ house when they downsized, and on the bed, crisp white sheets. It was my sanctuary at the end of each hectic day and I loved it. There was a second bedroom. As well as a sofa bed, there was a travel cot in there for my youngest mindees, plus a nappy changing station and a box of spare emergency clothes.

Also upstairs was the bathroom. What I’d give for a downstairs loo, especially now that little Arlo was potty training; we seemed to spend half of our lives up and down the stairs and once one felt the urge, they all needed to go.

So, I thought, snapping myself out of my reverie, maybe I’d outstayed my welcome at Welcome Cottage? Eric was right; it was turning into an old-woman-who-lived-in-a-shoe scenario. Perhaps it was time to buy a house, somewhere just as comfortable but big enough to accommodate my unexpected plans for expansion. I switched on my laptop, googled ‘houses for sale in Barnaby’ and began some virtual house-hunting. Maybe I’d find something even better than Welcome Cottage.



The following afternoon, I only had a baby to look after until it was time to collect the bigger ones from school. Harris was seven months old, a blond, chunky armful, who was generally a ray of sunshine. His mum had only been back at work part-time for a couple of weeks and I had a feeling she was finding their separation harder than he was; he had great fun at my house.

Right now, he was upstairs having his nap so I’d put the baby monitor on and resumed my online house-hunt. There was nothing suitable in the village so I’d already had to widen my search area. The problem so far was that there was nothing suitable nearby and I looked after local children and offered an after-school option. If I moved away, parents would think twice about using my services – hardly the best expansion plan in the world.

It was a shame they didn’t build these cottages with elastic walls and then I could stay put, I thought, scrolling through images of unsuitable houses. A couple of minutes later, the baby monitor lit up like a Christmas tree as Harris woke up and I turned the laptop off and stuffed it back in its case out of reach.

‘Hello, young man,’ I said, wrinkling my nose at the beaming baby in his cot, ‘does someone need a fresh nappy?’

‘Ba ba ba.’ Harris bobbed up and down, happy to see me and I took a quick snap to add to his daily diary and kissed the top of his head as I lifted him up.

Two minutes later he was nice and clean again. He rewarded me for my nappy-changing efforts by yanking on my hair and finding it very funny.

‘Come on,’ I said, peeling his fingers from my hair. ‘Let’s go out into the sunshine and see the ladies at The Evergreens; they might have some advice for me on the home front.’

I packed my bag ready for the school run, popped Harris into his front-facing papoose and let myself out of the back door. There was a gate in the garden fence, allowing me access directly into the grounds of The Evergreens. With Harris gripping my index fingers tightly, we set off in the autumn sunshine, crossing the lawn, circling the house, passing the vegetable patch and heading to the back door. I didn’t usually visit my neighbours while I had children with me. Violet and Delphine were retired teachers, so they were used to children, but Bing wasn’t and he’d once joked that he liked kids but couldn’t eat a whole one.

There was a lot of noise coming from the direction of the hen house which sat at the edge of the lawn, next to a trio of apple trees. The wooden doors were open and there was a pile of soggy straw beside them. The chickens were skittering all over the place, squawking as if they’d got burglars and from deep within came the sound of singing.

‘Five, six, seven o’clock, da-da-da-dah. Nine, ten, eleven o’clock, da-da-da-dah. We’re gonna rock da-dah-da-dah.’

I smiled to myself. No prizes for guessing who was in there.

‘That’s Bing,’ I said to Harris who was beating his heels excitedly against my thighs. ‘Singing to his chickens again. What do chickens say? Buck-buck-buck.’

I was bending my knees so Harris could get a closer look at the hens when Bing emerged from the shed. He had a handful of eggs and he was covered in straw, but beneath his grizzly-bear beard was a warm smile.

‘Hello, love! Look, girls,’ he said, stowing the eggs in his pocket and picking up his walking stick, ‘we’ve got visitors. Don’t drop that baby, Gina. Hens will eat anything.’

‘I wasn’t planning on dropping him.’ But I tightened my grip nonetheless. ‘We’ve come to see Violet and Delphine, are they in?’

‘They are. In the house somewhere, fussing over clothes last time I saw them.’ He walked over to us, with his habitual limp. He was on the waiting list for a hip replacement but it was taking so long that he joked that they’d have to dig him up to do it at this rate.

I stifled a giggle, taking in his moth-eaten shirt, trousers threadbare at the knees and wellingtons with big holes in the toes. Fussing over clothes was not something Bing could ever be accused of.

‘So who’s this little thing, then? Local is he, or is it a she?’ He pointed the end of his stick at the baby.

‘This is Harris and he’s local-ish. His mum’s a nurse at the GP’s practice in Barnaby.’

‘Lucky lad, growing up here,’ said Bing, patting the little boy’s head as if he was a dog. ‘I was evacuated here from Birmingham, you know. Happy memories.’

‘I do know; you’ve told me all about it,’ I said fondly, taking a swift glance at my watch. Bing’s stories were fascinating, but once he got talking it was almost impossible to escape and I wanted Violet’s advice before the school run.

‘I was only six years old,’ he said, leaning both hands on his stick. ‘Imagine leaving your mam at six! Got sent back home after two months because nothing was happening. Phoney war, they called it.’

‘And then you came again when you were eight,’ I put in, ‘and you met Jack Rose, Violet’s brother.’

‘Haha, you’ve got it!’ he laughed. His eyes were still strong and clear, although he was in his eighties. ‘Mates for life, Jack and me.’ His face dropped and he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Still miss the old bugger.’

‘Course you do.’ I was lucky; I’d never lost anyone close to me. My grandparents passed away before I was born and everyone else in my compact little family was still with us. I’d never even experienced the loss of a pet; my brother Howard was allergic and so my dream of a puppy or kitten for Christmas never came true.

‘We’d better go inside, if that’s all right?’ I said. ‘Before I run out of time.’

‘Right you are, love,’ said Bing, his face splitting with a smile again. He gestured towards the open French doors. ‘And remind the girls that my mate Stanley will be here soon to play cards, so they’d better make sure they’re decent. Don’t want the old boy having a heart attack at the sight of a stocking top, do we, young Harris?’

The baby laughed on cue and Bing handed me a couple of eggs which I managed to pop into the pockets of my jacket.

I went into the kitchen and called out but no one replied. I loved this room; it was about three times the size of mine. The paint on the French doors was peeling and two of the lower panes of glass were cracked, but they were propped open with blue and white checked doorstops in the shape of dogs and the effect was very welcoming. From the Bakelite handles on the freestanding cupboards, the crockery lining the dresser and the ancient-looking range cooker, I always felt like I was on the set of Call The Midwife or below stairs at Downton Abbey. But despite the time-worn fixtures and ancient appliances, it was a friendly place; in fact, the whole house exuded warmth and homeliness and never failed to lift my spirits. And if I wasn’t mistaken, someone had been baking; there was a sweet spiciness in the air.

‘Do not enter the sewing room, Bing Kershaw, do you hear?’ came a voice from the depths of the house.

‘It’s not Bing, it’s Gina,’ I called, crossing the kitchen and peering into the hall. ‘With Harris. I can come back if it’s a bad time?’

The hallway was a study in faded elegance. Long velvet curtains beneath an elaborate pelmet flanked a wide front door topped with a coloured fanlight. The floor tiles were black and white like a chessboard, a threadbare velvet chair stood at the bottom of the stairs and a grandfather clock made from beautiful burnished wood presided majestically o