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‘Well, good for you,’ she said grudgingly. ‘Yes, I'll do Hector for you. Or you could even ask Phoebe and pay her. Children will do anything for money.’

‘Will they?’

‘Of course, didn't you know that?’

It occurred to me that Anna did hardly anything for money, since we gave it to her anyway. Well, she was an only, and we had plenty, but that wasn't entirely the point, was it? She wasn't learning the value of it.

‘Is she there?’

‘Hang on, I'll get her.’

Phoebe came on, breathless. ‘Hi, Evie!’

‘Hi, Phoebs. Darling, I wondered, would you be an angel and look after Hector for a few days? Only we're going away at half-term.’

‘I know. Mummy just told me. Does that mean Anna won't be doing Pony Club with us?’

‘Oh, some of it she will, just not at the beginning. But we'll be back on Tuesday, don't you worry.’

‘Oh. OK. Most of it's over by then.’

As I secured a deal with her and put the phone down, it occurred to me she was bitterly disappointed. During the summer, Anna had practically lived at the farm, and these last few weeks after school had spent most afternoons there too, riding Hector, who, true to Camilla's word, always behaved beautifully and hadn't put a hoof wrong. The two cousins had trotted around the fields together on their ponies, Anna, nervous but getting there, Phoebe, encouraging her, revelling in teaching her cousin new tricks, and then together they'd mucked out, preferring to do it together in the light autumn evenings, the clocks not yet gone back, radio blaring, laughing and joking. I'd wondered how long it would last, but thus far, Hector had been a huge success. It occurred to me that Phoebe had been looking forward to this holiday, to see even more of Anna, show her off to her friends, and possibly show off a little herself too. But as I said, we'd be back.

Right now, we were nearly there. In Sheffield. I sat up and looked around. I'd rather imagined it would be more built-up: rows and rows of little terraced houses snaking up hills as we approached, perhaps with a few disused pits and crumbling mills. More Lowry country and less, well, less beautiful countryside, which, as we cruised through it now, looked more green and pleasant than dark and satanic. As one lush field gave way to another, punctuated by a few dreamy-looking sheep and enclosed by neat dry-stone walls, I frowned.

‘Are we nearly there?’ I really was the nine-year-old in the back. And actually I needed the loo too.

‘Very. The next village.’

I blinked. ‘But I thought they lived in Sheffield.’

‘No, close by. Their village is eight miles outside.’

‘Oh. You said Sheffield!’

‘Only as a point of reference. A bit like Tim and Caro living in Oxford.’

‘Down here, Daddy.’ Anna was navigating from her vantage point in the front, a printed out email in her hand. ‘And then left at the postbox, apparently…’ Ant swung the car obediently, ‘and then down the hill into the village…’

I gazed in wonder. By now the rain had dried up, the blustering wind had spent, and a bright blue sky had been offered by way of apology. Down the bottom of the hill, in a fold, an adorable little village came into view. A huddle of grey slate roofs grouped around a skinny church spire; loose, crooked walls ran around gardens under chestnut trees, their leaves golden against the blue October haze. A river warbled and rushed through the middle of the village, fleeing west down the valley. Beyond, the toppling steepness of the hills rose up as a backdrop, painted with a smudgy green brush, and just a daub of purple heather.

As we followed the sinuous course of the lane to its conclusion in the valley, it came to rest amidst a string of grey cottages. We purred through. There was a sudden darkening of ancient yew trees, which clustered around the church in the centre, all but hiding its steeple.

‘Just the other side of the church, Daddy, the very next house. Here, with the five-bar gate.’

Five-bar gate? My head snapped around.

Set back slightly from the lane was a detached, but compact,