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I swallow. ‘You want to bring Willow here? To stay with me? What . . . until you find him somewhere else to live?’

‘Well, yes. Sometimes, family members commit to having their charges live with them. Others let them stay until a different arrangement can be sorted out.’

‘I . . .’ My throat tightens. ‘But that’s impossible.’

‘Like I say, I realize it’s a lot to take in. And of course you need to think about it, talk to your family.’

I shake my head. ‘It’s just me.’

Lara clears her throat. ‘The thing is, we need to move Willow from the foster placement he’s in. Even if it’s only temporary. Unfortunately, we’re very short on foster carers in our area, and we need every bed we can get.’

I’m trying to take in what she’s saying.

‘Maybe you could discuss it with a close friend?’ She looks as if she’s about to stand to leave.

‘Oh, yes, I could talk to Gareth, I suppose,’ I say, suddenly feeling nervous. Paddy’s friend Gareth pops in fairly regularly. Sometimes we have a microwave dinner together, or even a takeaway. He misses Paddy almost as much as me; I think it’s his way of staying close to him, checking in on me. Telling me he promised Paddy he’d ‘keep an eye on me’. I really don’t need keeping an eye on, but I think he likes the company. I think he’s rather lonely.

Gareth and Paddy were at school together. Later on, when Gareth moved back to the area with his family, they started to meet up weekly for a pint and darts. I think it was Paddy being kind, to be honest. Gareth tried to get Paddy to play golf with him, but that was never Paddy’s idea of fun. He used to say, ‘Ruins a good walk!’ After Gareth’s divorce, he just became part of the furniture round here. And he can be useful to bounce ideas off; like when I went to look at the new flat, he came with me. However, I did have to point out I didn’t need a cupboard big enough for golf clubs. It was just going to be me and Tegan and my crafting bits, and for us, it was perfect.

I can just imagine what Gareth would say if I told him about Lara’s visit and young Willow. Like I say, he’s kind, but very . . . protective.

‘But that’s ridiculous!’ says Gareth when he arrives that evening, for one of our arranged microwave suppers.

‘I’ve said I don’t think I can do it,’ I say, ‘but I’ve agreed to meet him. Tell him about Paddy, his second cousin. Just try and make this a little easier on him. Apparently he’s very distressed. He was found in dreadful circumstances, caring for his mother. No one knew.’

Gareth frowns while he pours a glass of the wine he’s brought, hands it to me and pours himself a ginger beer.

‘So what will happen now?’ he asks a little more gently, clearly seeing my worry.

I take a deep breath.

‘He’s in emergency foster care this evening with his social worker. Then they’ll move him out of the area to try and find him a longer-term foster home, and then look for a family for him. Adoption.’

‘Well, that’s good,’ he says, sipping his ginger beer.

I put a loaf of bread on the table and begin to slice it.

‘Cheese on toast okay?’ I say, not really asking but rather saying. ‘I forgot to pick up the fisherman’s pies from the supermarket, what with one thing and another. But I’ve got bread and cheese.’

‘I could take you out,’ he says, smiling, clearly not convinced by the idea of cheese on toast as a dinner choice. ‘Treat you. It’s two for one at the pub. Steak night!’

‘Sounds dangerously like a date!’ I laugh.

‘No, no, just as friends. As always. I’m here as a friend, Gwen. Yours and Paddy’s.’

I smile and shake my head.

‘I know, and thank you, but no. Not today. Too much on my mind,’ I say, watching the wonky bread slices fall to the table. We lapse into silence.

Then he says, ‘So, that’s good – this young chap will get a new home.’ He lifts his glass to his lips again, his expression sympathetic. ‘All’s well that ends well.’

I sigh, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders this evening.

‘The only problem is, older children don’t tend to get new families,’ I find myself saying. I’m repeating what Lara the social worker told me when I asked her how long it might take for Willow to be placed with an adoptive family. ‘Like the bigger Christmas trees. People want smaller these days,’ I say, thinking aloud. ‘People don’t have room for a bigger one. They take up a lot of space, need a lot of watering; they’re hard to decorate. People like smaller ones with roots.’

My mind is whirring and racing, thoughts veering this way and that like bumper cars. Poor lad. Could I have done more? It’s ridiculous, though. I couldn’t. ‘It’s always been hard to know what to do about the bigger ones,’ I say sadly.

‘Why are we talking about Christmas trees? You haven’t opened the Christmas tree farm since Paddy died.’