Night Music by Jojo Moyes

‘. . . the Spanish House is, would you?’
    There was a brief silence.
    ‘I would indeed, dear,’ said Mrs Linnet. ‘You’re not far at all.’ She had clearly forgotten her previous trials. ‘Might I ask who you’re hoping to find there?’
    The girl looked blank.
    ‘Old Mr Pottisworth died recently,’ Mrs Linnet explained. ‘There’s nobody living there now. If you’re here for the funeral I’m afraid you’re too late.’
    ‘Oh, I know,’ said the girl. ‘We’re moving in.’
    ‘In where?’ Henry was in the doorway to the back room.
    ‘The Spanish House. This young lady’s moving into the Spanish House.’ Mrs Linnet could barely contain herself, given the portentousness of the news. She thrust out a hand. ‘In that case we’ll almost be neighbours, dear. I’m Deirdre Linnet . . .’ She peered out of the steamed-up window. ‘I take it you’re not here on your own?’
    ‘My mum’s outside in the car with my brother. Actually, I’d better go because the removal van’s waiting for us. Erm . . . where did you say it was?’
    Asad gestured towards the road. ‘Turn left opposite the signs for the pig farm, right at the crossroads, and then follow the track all the way down until you get to the sign marked “ Cave! ”’
    ‘“Take Care,”’ Henry and Mrs Linnet added helpfully in unison.
    ‘We’ll be open till five,’ said Asad, ‘if you need anything. And go carefully on the track. It’s a bit . . . unfinished.’
    The girl was scribbling on her bit of paper. ‘Left pig farm, right crossroads, follow track. Thanks,’ she said.
    ‘See you again,’ said Henry, handing a mug of tea to Mrs Linnet.
    They watched as she disappeared into the road. Then, after a brief, barely decent delay, they scrambled to the window and wiped a viewing hole in the steam. Through it they watched the girl climb back into the passenger seat of a large, battered old Citroën. Behind it the removals van was almost blocking the lane, its windscreen wipers periodically revealing three burly men inside.
    ‘Well, how about that?’ said Henry. ‘Young people in the big house.’
    ‘She might be young,’ said Mrs Linnet, reprovingly, ‘but that’s no excuse for the state of those shoes.’
    ‘Shoes may be the least of her worries,’ said Henry. ‘I wonder what kind of welcome they’ll get from the neighbours.’
    Kitty sat in silence as her mother attempted to negotiate her way down the dirt track. Every now and then she would check her rear-view mirror for the removals lorry swaying precariously behind them and mutter a plea under her breath. ‘Are you sure they said it was this way?’ she asked Kitty, for the fourth time. ‘I don’t remember this track.’
    ‘Right at the crossroads. I even wrote it down.’
    The car jolted and crunched on to its front bumper as it came through another water-filled rut. Kitty heard the wheels spin briefly without purchase, the engine whining in protest, before they moved forward again. Around them the pine trees towered, blocking what remained of the afternoon light.
    ‘I can’t believe it’s down here. We’ll need a tractor to get out.’
    Kitty was secretly glad that the track was so awful. Perhaps it might make her mother see sense about this stupid move. For weeks she had hung on to the vain hope that Isabel would admit it had been a mistake, and decide that somehow she could juggle their finances to keep them in their home. But no. She had made Kitty say goodbye to her school, to her friends, in the middle of the spring term, and head off to God only knew where. And it didn’t matter what Mum said about everyone keeping in touch – she knew that once she was no longer there, swapping texts and gossiping, she would no longer exist for them. Even if she went back to visit every couple of weeks she would only ever be on the periphery, missing all the in-jokes, behind on the moment’s trend.
    The windscreen wipers swung back and forth with a