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‘Oh, there are – believe me, there are. But I think you will be able to deal with the Ryans of this world just fine.’ She looks steadily at me for a moment. ‘So you’d be happy for Willow to come and stay with you? Be his kinship carer?’

‘Just until, y’know, they find him a . . .’

‘Forever home,’ she finishes.

‘Yes. I mean. If it helps things along.’

‘It really would. You are family. By marriage. But still, family.’

It feels strange hearing it.

‘We’ve already run police and social service checks on you, before we contacted you. So, it may seem quick, but Willow could go with you now.’

‘Now?’

She nods.

‘Think of it as a sleepover. A holiday in the countryside for him, at the farm. While we get to work finding him his forever home. Obviously, you’d need to agree to us starting the process of you becoming his kinship carer, responsible for him in the meantime.’

A little shocked by my own actions, I find myself nodding.

‘Yes, perfect. A holiday with a family member.’ I think again about Paddy and how much he would have embraced this. In which case, I must too.

The drive home is pretty silent. Neither of us really knows what’s going on. I’m driving the old Land Rover, and Willow is sitting behind me, because somehow that seems like the sensible thing to do. But I don’t know – I haven’t had children. And everything has happened so quickly. I just couldn’t walk away and leave him there. Leave him to another Ryan, in another new foster home. At least I feel I’m doing something right by him.

His belongings are in a black bag on the seat next to him. I drive carefully, cautiously, slowly. Suddenly I have a young passenger I’m responsible for, and I’m terrified. I keep checking my rear-view mirror, but he’s just out of sight.

‘Willow, are you okay?’ I ask, but he doesn’t reply. I chew my lip, wondering whether to pull over. I pull myself tall in my seat and can see he’s still there, resting his forehead on the glass, staring out of the window. He hasn’t somehow slipped out at the traffic lights.

We drive on. My mind is whirring. I have no idea how I’m going to make this work, or even if I can. But for now, he’s safe. I’ll talk to Lara in the morning. He’ll stay with me until a family can be found for him. One that will love him and care for him and give him everything he needs.

I take the track to the farm really slowly, doing my best to avoid the divets and potholes.

‘Okay, Willow,’ I say at last, ‘we’re home.’

No reply. I unclip my seatbelt and turn round, worried that he might be unwell, to see him with his eyes shut, fast asleep. I wonder when the last time was that he slept without worry.

Chapter 4

‘You said you were just going to visit,’ says Gareth in a hushed voice in the low lamplight of the kitchen, where the lampshades have never quite sat straight on their bases the way I see them in other people’s homes. In the new flat, my lampshades will fit their bases and sit straight and tidy. ‘You were just going to take him some brownies. And then when I couldn’t get through to you on the phone, I thought I’d better come over. What’s happened?’

‘Shh! He’s asleep,’ I say, although I don’t think Willow’s actually asleep.

It must be a really confusing and upsetting time for him. Two nights ago he was in foster care, where he was supposed to be safe; then he spent last night in emergency foster care with Lara; and now all of a sudden he’s here, in a complete stranger’s home, lying in a big, old-fashioned, wooden bed. I get a pang of sadness in my chest, both for Willow, and wishing Paddy was here. This bed was an impulse buy. It was one of the things I loved most about Paddy, his energy and excitement to follow through on a mad plan. Paddy and I bought the bed at an auction because we both loved it, even though getting it home was a complete nightmare. We had to pay the van driver extra to bring it up the drive and help us get it up the stairs to the spare room.

That was me and Paddy. We did a lot of things like that. Like starting up the Christmas tree farm against his parents’ better judgement. I think back to the early days when we started the business – we were so exhausted by the time Christmas Day came round, but Paddy always insisted that no matter how tired he felt, the day was for us to celebrate what we had. We’d pick a tree and I’d decorate it. In the morning, he’d light the fire in the living room and we’d lay up the table. There was always a handful of guests: his parents when they were alive; Gareth, after his divorce; neighbouring farmers who found themselves on their own. The house just seemed to open its arms and welcome everyone in, and it came alive with the greetings of ‘Merry Christmas’. Lunch would go on for hours. Paddy always cooked the turkey – it was like he was waiting all year for this moment. And afterwards, there would be drinks and charades in front of the fire. It was always the happiest of days. Simple, but happy.

I take the glass of wine Gareth has poured for me and pick at the cold fish fingers and oven chips Willow left on his plate. They were all I had in the freezer, and I hoped he might love fish fingers, but apparently I can even mess those up. I take a sip of the deep, fruity wine. It hits the spot. But I’m only having the one, just in case there’s an emergency or something – a tummy bug or a fever, or some sort of allergic reaction. I have no idea what to do in any of those situations! Or what if he makes a run for it in the night, and I have to drive to find him? Possible flight risk, they said. Although there’s nowhere he could really run to from here. It would take a good while just to get to the end of the drive . . . I picture the potholes. A child could easily break a bone in one of those. My mind is powering out worries and dangers like the jet wash I use to clean the yard.

‘Gwen, are you listening?’ Gareth says. ‘I mean it – you can’t just take on a child. Not just like that.’

I look at him, trying to break free of the thoughts that are replaying in my head and listen to what he’s saying. ‘Sorry, what was that?’

‘You can’t just take on a child. I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but you haven’t had any experience. And not now, not at your . . .’ He stops, looking warily at me as my expression darkens. He now has my full attention.

‘At my what? Can’t take on a child at my . . .?’ I surprise myself with the sharpness of my response. ‘At my age?’ I snap.

But I’m not sure it’s Gareth I’m cross at. He’s right: I’ve never looked after a child before, not on my own. Well, not at all. And it’s terrifying, even if I am considered ‘family’.