‘We have no idea what they’re like,’ Simmy worried. ‘What’m I going to wear? How long do we have to stay?’

‘There’ll be loads of other people there. Nobody’s going to take much notice of us. If they do, it’ll be Robin they talk to, not us. It’s just a nice village get-together for Christmas. Don’t get all obsessive about it.’

‘It’s not our village, though, is it? We’re not part of Glenridding society – or do we say “community”? That sounds nicer, somehow. Whichever it is, it’s not us. I wouldn’t mind if it was people we know here in Hartsop. Why have they even asked us?’

‘Because we go to the shop there, and people know us, whatever you think. They’re only being friendly. Why’re you being so weird? I’d have thought you’d be thrilled at the chance of meeting more people. You’re always saying you wish you’d got a friend within walking distance.’

Simmy paused, trying to analyse her own response. Christopher had dropped the news of the invitation only ten minutes earlier, and her instant reaction had been resistance bordering on panic. A couple slightly younger than them, named Dan and Fran Bunting, had approached Christopher in the Glenridding store and invited the Hendersons to a late-afternoon get-together in two days’ time – which would be 21st December, a Friday. ‘It’s a solstice party. We’re asking everybody,’ said Dan. ‘Really going the whole hog. Kids, dogs, grannies – the works. Sausages, punch, mince pies. We won’t turn down any contributions, but it’s not obligatory.’

‘You’ve got a little boy, haven’t you?’ put in Fran. ‘I bet he’s excited about Christmas. I’d love to meet him.’

‘He doesn’t really understand what’s going on, but we think he’ll enjoy it this year. But I don’t think we’ll bring the dog,’ said Christopher cautiously. ‘Thanks for asking us – it sounds great.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Simmy now. ‘I feel overwhelmed for some reason. I like people in small doses. I’ll be stupidly shy.’

‘I doubt if there’ll be all that many, when it comes to it. Not a lot of people live in Patterdale, after all, and some of them are bound to be otherwise engaged. Think positive. It sounds pretty good to me.’

‘You just said there’d be loads of people there,’ she accused him. ‘Make up your mind.’

‘We’re going, Sim – and that’s final.’

‘I know we are,’ she sighed. ‘I didn’t doubt it for a moment.’

They arrived early, on the basis that this meant they could leave early, too. ‘I bet everyone’ll be gone by seven,’ said Christopher. ‘They obviously don’t intend to give us much food. Although he did mention sausages and mince pies.’ They’d used the village car park a short way below the designated house.

‘And it’ll be Robin’s bedtime. They must realise that.’

The house was one of the oldest in the area, made of the typical dark grey slate that characterised Lakeland. ‘What do they do?’ Simmy whispered belatedly, as they were almost on the doorstep.

‘No idea,’ Christopher replied, before turning a wide smile on Fran Bunting, who had thrown the door open for them. ‘Here we are,’ he added fatuously.

Their hostess was thin, with make-up worthy of a film star. She wore tight leggings and a long red top with sparkly bits in it. ‘And this is your little boy!’ she trilled excitedly. ‘Remind me what he’s called.’

Simmy responded gratefully, aware that this was a ploy to make her feel welcome, rather than any genuine interest in the child. In the turmoil of releasing Robin from his buggy, getting into the living room and trying to focus on the three or four faces already there, any lurking shyness was dispelled. The doorbell rang again, and Fran sped off to answer it, leaving guests to introduce themselves.

‘Drink?’ asked a man Simmy vaguely recognised. He watched Robin’s sturdy march across the room with obvious enjoyment. ‘They look like drunken sailors at that age, don’t they?’

Simmy laughed. It might be a cliché, but it was no less true for that.

‘This is Dan,’ said Christopher to his wife. ‘What drinks have you got?’

‘Gin. Wine. Sherry. Juice. Punch.’ The last was uttered with special emphasis, suggesting that there really was little or no choice.

‘Punch, then,’ said Christopher. ‘Right, Sim?’

‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘What’s in it?’

‘All the usual. Most of the alcohol’s boiled off, according to Fran, if that’s worrying you.’

‘Not really,’ said Simmy. She looked at him more closely, trying to identify what he reminded her of. She thought it might be a vicar. There was something in his manner suggestive of solicitude, an excessive attention to her feelings and wishes that felt intrusive. ‘It smells gorgeous,’ she added.

The room was decorated with swags of greenery: mostly sprigs of fir, holly and ivy, with pine cones added here and there. As a florist, Simmy felt obliged to give a further inspection, although she had already ascertained at a glance that it was all home-made. A small Christmas tree stood in a corner, looking oddly irrelevant. Christmas carols were playing in another room.

Robin shared none of his mother’s discomfort amongst strangers. At twenty-one months, he was walking and talking with confidence, accustomed more to adults than other children and alarmingly enthusiastic about dogs. Dan Bunting rapidly provided punch, and Simmy drank half of it right away. ‘Hello, little man,’ a youngish woman greeted Robin, ignoring his mother. ‘Shall I give you a cake?’ Without glancing to a parent for permission, she handed the toddler a large mince pie.

‘Ah … um …’ Simmy managed. ‘Well, I suppose it’s all right. He’ll make an awful mess.’

‘Oh – sorry,’ said the woman unapologetically. ‘He’s not allergic, is he?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. He’s never had a mince pie, so we’re probably about to find out.’

The woman laughed much louder than was appropriate and Robin gave her a sideways look before sinking his teeth into the pastry. His face was instantly besmirched with crumbs.

‘I’m Aoife,’ said Robin’s new friend. ‘It’s Irish for Eva. Don’t even try to spell it.’ She then proceeded to do exactly that.

‘You don’t sound very Irish,’ said Simmy, trying with difficulty to avoid any stereotypes. Irish people did feed their infants on sweet unsuitable food, she suspected.

‘Well, yes – I mean, no. I’ve been here most of my life, as it happens. Since I was nine, in fact.’ Her eye caught another woman, and she grinned. ‘If you’re looking for funny names, how about Diellza? She’s Albanian. I’ve just been getting to know her, but I didn’t get very far. She’s quite exotic, don’t you think?’

A large female approached warily. ‘Hello,’ she said in a musical voice. ‘My English is not too good. Sorry.’

‘You’re doing brilliantly,’ Aoife assured her, with a patronising smile. She waved at the Hendersons. ‘Some local people for you to get to know. They’ll tell you their names.’

‘Christopher and Simmy,’ said Christopher. ‘We live in Hartsop.’

‘Oh? You are … Simmy?’ She was obviously querying the name, not the individual.

‘Short for Persimmon. Tell me your name again.’

‘Di-ell-za,’ came the answer, slowly, separating the syllables.

Before any more could be said, Fran Bunting appeared waving an envelope. ‘Hey, Diellza – this came for you this afternoon. I forgot to give it to you. Looks like a Christmas card.’ She handed it over and moved quickly away. Diellza put it in a pocket.

Robin was standing close to his mother, gazing up at the new person towering over him. She was wearing an all-enveloping kaftan-style garment, made of a heavy material that hung from her substantial figure. She had to weigh sixteen stone, Simmy assessed, and she had a sweet face. ‘It’s a pretty name. Like Demelza. That’s Cornish, I think.’

‘Names are interesting. My husband is called Alexander. He’s Scottish.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘You say “Scottish” not “Scotch”. I have to take care to...