The nameplate on the Fosters’ front wall, announcing ‘Galanthus House’ was not as welcoming as ‘Bide A While’ or ‘Journey’s End’ might have been, but she was glad to get back into its sheltering portals. She had forgotten to enquire as to the significance of the name – some sort of plant, she suspected.

It was half past four. Nearly time to feed the dogs and think of something for herself. It would be eight or so before she could phone Drew, as she was itching to do. The intervening hours would pass slowly, as she knew from past experience. Supervising dogs, taking Gwennie outside, unpacking, working out how to operate the various controls for the television – all these diversions and more only took her to six o’clock. Accustomed to similar spells of inactivity in the first days of a house-sit, she pottered in the kitchen, frying herself two eggs and a fishcake, that came from her own grocery supplies. The Fosters had made it clear they expected her to see to her own catering requirements, only using condiments and sauces from their cupboards.

She elected to listen to the radio, rather than sit in front of the TV, with the news full of the usual extreme weather events and alarming economic figures. Nothing she need bother about, she decided.

Her mobile was fully charged and very much more central to her existence than it had been before things had started to happen between her and Drew. She sent him a steady stream of texts and even photos from time to time. But nothing came close to the pleasure she derived from a real conversation and hearing his voice, as far as satisfaction went. And that was a poor second to being in the same room with him, meeting his gaze and touching his skin.

There were other people she could contact, of course – first amongst them being Jessica, her police officer daughter. She had neglected Jess rather seriously in recent months, feeling guilty mainly because she didn’t feel guilty about it – which made Drew laugh. The girl was twenty-three, qualified, busy, sociable. She didn’t need her mother very much. But other women still hovered over their daughters well past that age, expecting to know every detail of their lives and to have their advice heeded. There was definitely a rule of some sort somewhere that Thea suspected she was breaking. The breaking of rules was part of her nature, it seemed, especially in recent times of surveillance and interference and intolerance of differences. Every time she heard anybody talking about it as an age of individualism, she scoffed. As far as she could see, it was the exact opposite. To run counter to the prevailing tide of opinion was to attract the most extreme opprobrium and even the attention of the police, if they suspected you of hating someone.

When the mobile trilled at her, she leapt to grab it, thinking Drew had found a moment to call her earlier than usual. But it was a different number showing on the screen. ‘Hello?’ she said.

‘Thea. It’s Damien. Where are you?’

‘Damien? For heaven’s sake – what’s happened? Is it Mum?’

‘No, no. Don’t panic. It’s nothing like that. Where are you?’ he asked again.

‘A little place called Daglingworth. You won’t have heard of it. Why do you want to know?’

‘Just curious. I can never keep track of you these days, with that boyfriend and everything.’

Were older brothers meant to supervise their sisters, then, like a mother with a grown-up daughter, she wondered irritably. Damien had always been someone to avoid as much as possible, with his prissy judgements and tendency to over-control everyone. As older brother to three sisters, he had assumed responsibilities that nobody had ever actually accorded him.

‘So …?’ she prompted. She didn’t like to have the phone tied up for long, when all she wanted was to speak to Drew.

‘Listen. I’ve got some news.’ His voice was oddly unsure, even shy – which was highly unusual.

‘What?’ Already she had guessed that he was going to take holy orders, or sell all his goods and become a hermit. Damien had embraced religion some fifteen years ago and had become difficult to talk to ever since. Occasional attempts to convert one or other of his sisters never came to anything.

‘Judy’s pregnant.’

‘Good God!’ Despite repeated requests that everyone in the family refrain from such expletives, the habit was far too deep to change. And perhaps this time, he would deem it appropriate anyway. ‘That’s amazing.’

‘I know. We can hardly believe it. It’s due in August, which doesn’t seem very far off. We had no idea until last week.’

Thea tried to do the calculations. ‘She’s four months on, then?’

‘Sixteen weeks,’ he agreed.

‘And she’s forty-four – is that right?’

‘Not quite, but she will be when it’s born. A baby, Thea! At our age!’

‘Yes,’ she said faintly. ‘It’s hard to imagine.’ And it was. Judy had a PhD in numerology, which had apparently fitted quite readily into Damien’s religious faith and practice. She worked as some sort of consultant to a perfectly mainstream financial institution, which supposedly did at least involve an understanding of numbers.

‘We never even dreamt …’ He was obviously trying to say something about how the creature had been conceived, but was too embarrassed. ‘We thought it was … you know, the menopause.’

At least he didn’t call it The Change, Thea thought. ‘I gather that happens a lot,’ she said, wondering with a distinct horror whether it could ever happen to her. ‘People seem to cope pretty well. You’re both in good health, at least.’

‘You are meant to offer congratulations,’ he said, sounding stiff and awfully old.

‘Take it as read. What does Mum think? Have you told Jocelyn? What about Emily?’

‘Mum’s delighted. She likes babies. And I’m calling Jocelyn next, after you.’ The question about their other sister was ignored.

‘You’re right about Mum. Well, thanks for telling me. I appreciate it. I’ll come and see you sometime. Maybe over Easter. I need to go now – sorry. You’ll be fine. Tell Judy from me, she’ll be a great mother.’

‘Thanks.’

She pressed the red button and sat back on the sofa where she’d gone from the first moments of the call, thinking a long relaxed chat with Drew was about to take place. How in the world had Damien’s God made such a drastic mistake as to send them a child? Her brother and his wife were like a couple from the pages of Charles Dickens. She was tall and angular, he short and wide. Neither of them managed the details of daily life especially well. Their house was untidy and disorganised, with books, papers, unopened letters, empty CD cases and assorted accumulations on every surface. Damien earned a modest salary as a counsellor for a church charity, helping people through various crises. Thea had often wondered how good he was at listening or giving advice. Perhaps, she thought optimistically, he was much better with strangers than he was with his family.

At last it was time to call Drew. His children would be in bed and he would be sitting with his feet up, wondering how to pass his lonely evening, just as she was herself. One day, she promised herself, they would spend every remaining evening of their lives together.

He did not answer the phone immediately. When he did, it was breathlessly. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked him.

‘The usual,’ he said. ‘Body for removal and not enough of us to do it. For some reason, it won’t wait till the morning.’

‘Can’t Maggs and what’s-his-name do it?’ There was a new assistant, required to be on perpetual standby for just such contingencies. Thea had never met him, but he had sounded reliable.

‘Peter. He’s called Peter. And he’s in A&E according to his wife, because he dropped a sledgehammer on his foot.’

‘Den, then.’

‘Leave it, love. It’s not your problem. I’m getting Hilary from the village to come and babysit. I’ve got twenty minutes to wait, before she can get here. Let’s talk about something else. What’s it like in sunny Daglingworth?’

‘It was sunny for a bit, and then it rained. Luckily I got a lift from an irascible red-haired farmer.’

‘You were out in the rain? Why?’

She gave him a quick account of the day, emphasising the delights of landscape and architecture, and remembering to report the Bythesea name in the church. ‘It’s a hotbed of revolution, surprisingly. I met three eco-warriors, or something of the sort. They object to practically everything – not least the red-haired farmer’s efforts to sell a very small field as a building plot.’

‘Don’t get involved,’ he warned her.

‘I wasn’t going to.’

‘I ought to heed my own advice, I suppose,’ he said, with a preoccupied tone. ‘I think I might have done something I’ll regret.’

‘Oh?’

‘There’s a nursing home not far from here. I’ve dealt with them since I started, on and off. But a year ago they were bought by a bigger outfit, with new management and a lot of staff changes. Well, in the past four weeks I’ve done three funerals for them. And yesterday they called with another one.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it? They must like you. Is it them you’re going to this evening?’

‘No, no. A different one. But when we went one day last week, one of the inmates collared me – I know most of them, anyway. Quite a few have booked places in the field. The thing is, they’re all terrified of the new people. And the woman who died before this latest one – she was called Mrs Hepton – she was absolutely skin and bone. They said something about it being due to an infection, which made no sense at all. She must have died of starvation. And she was always quite a large lady. So – I made a call to the police about it.’

‘Blimey, Drew!’

‘Well, I didn’t see I had any choice. I can’t let that sort of thing go on and just turn a blind eye, can I? Even Maggs thinks it’s sinister, and she’s always on at me to leave sleeping dogs alone.’

‘Well …’

‘The thing is, there’s always been an understanding that undertakers don’t ask awkward questions, particularly where nursing homes are concerned. We need their business, after all. Daphne Plant would throw a fit if any of her team did such a thing.’

‘Yes, but you’re not Daphne Plant, are you.’ It wasn’t a question. Thea had heard something of the ambitious female undertaker who had originally introduced Drew to the business. He had left her employ after a year or so, determined to create his own much more ethical concern. On the whole, he had succeeded handsomely.

‘No. And those poor old things in the home do need somebody on their side. It’s much too easy to make their remaining days a complete misery.’

‘And we can’t have that, can we?’

‘Thanks. I knew you’d understand.’ He still sounded worried. ‘I’m hoping the police won’t reveal the source of their information, but it’s bound to get out. Or they’ll figure it out for themselves. And if the place is closed down, that’s not going to help the inmates, is it?’

‘Too late to worry about it now, love. Listen, it must be nearly time for you to go. I’ll call you again tomorrow. But first I have two quick questions.’

‘Fire away.’

‘First – do you know what galanthus is?’

‘Um … snowdrops, isn’t it? I remember when Karen planted them all along our bank, she said that was their proper name.’

‘Great. Thanks. It’s the name of this house, you see. The other thing is – have you come across a newfangled type of washbasin – you know, in a fancy modern bathroom, where you push the plug in and then can’t get it out again?’

‘Not that I can recall.’

‘Well, there’s one in the other house I’m minding. I couldn’t for the life of me see how you do it.’

‘Try pushing it down further. It might be on some sort of spring.’

‘No, no. That can’t be it. It’s already right down.’

‘Just try it, okay. If everything else fails, try the counter-intuitive angle.’

‘That would never have occurred to me in a thousand years. I can’t wait to go back and see if you’re right.’

‘I think it’s called lateral thinking.’

There followed two minutes of sentimental exchanges along the lines of how greatly they approved of each other. Then Drew said, ‘Oh, I think that’s Hilary now. I’ll have to go.’

‘One last thing,’ she called, wondering how she could have left it so late. ‘My brother Damien’s wife is pregnant. She’s forty-four.’

‘Good for her. So is Maggs. She told me not to tell you, for reasons I don’t understand. Speak to you tomorrow, sweetheart. Sleep well.’

And he was gone.