‘I am terribly sorry,’ says Gretel in a Royal Family accent.

‘How frightfully rude of me.’

‘I happen to think it is,’ says Hans sternly, although Sophie knows he is trying not to laugh. Nobody chuckles louder than Hans at his wife’s repertoire of accents and funny voices.

Sophie watches her parents acting as if they have just reached that nice stage in a relationship where you pretend to be annoyed with each other in public. There is a mean feeling in her chest like heartburn. It takes her a few seconds to identify that it is actually envy. She puts down her glass of water with a thud. Well, this is getting beyond a joke. Yesterday she’d been pounding away on the treadmill at the gym watching a documentary on one of the television screens. It was about a woman with no arms and no legs who had to get around on a skateboard. A touching story of courage in the face of terrible odds. But even while she was blinking back tears of sympathy, Sophie had, just for a second, actually felt a tiny bit envious of the woman. Why? Because of her nice, good-looking (fully limbed) husband! As punishment she had given herself an extra twenty minutes on the treadmill to show her appreciation of her two rather short, but perfectly functional, legs. (Still, she couldn’t quite get the thought out of her mind: if an arm-less, leg-less woman on a skateboard could find a man, surely Sophie was doing something very, very wrong? How did this woman meet him? Pull on his trouser leg as she rolled by him in a nightclub?)

Now here she is, feeling jealous of her own sweet parents. She is a very bad person. A spoiled only child. A brat.

She says, ‘Don’t you want to hear my letter from Aunt Connie?’

‘Oh, yes!’ Her parents are immediately all attention.

Sophie takes the letter out of her handbag, clears her throat and reads,

‘Dear Sophie…’

A waitress appears at their table as though she has been waiting for this very signal. ‘Good evening. Did you need any more time, or may I take your order?’

‘My daughter is just reading a letter from someone who left her a house,’ Gretel beams up at her. ‘This woman barely knew her! It’s all very intriguing.’ Sophie’s mother believes discretion is the height of rudeness.

‘Oh, well, that is–ah–intriguing.’ The waitress is obviously unsure whether to make her face happy or sad about this revelation and settles for confused.

‘What’s more intriguing is whether the veal comes with vegetables?’ Hans looks up over the top of his glasses and treats the waitress to his sweet smile.

When their orders are taken and Hans and Sophie have managed to restrain Gretel from generously inviting the waitress to stay and listen to the letter, Sophie begins again:

Dear Sophie,

Well, my dear, today I decided to leave you my house. It is an odd decision, but not, let me assure you, a whimsical one or a senile one. I have thought about it at length. No doubt this decision will create something of a hoo-ha and Veronika will be in a state, but it is my house and I’ve decided I want you to have it. It would have been easier if you had stayed with Thomas but I’m not at all surprised, in fact I’m rather pleased, that you didn’t.

I don’t really know you from a bar of soap, do I? But there was something about you and your reaction to my house. You know that my husband Jimmy and I built it together. It is very special to me. Every brick, every floorboard, every windowsill has a memory for me. (Goodness me, I smile when I look at that silly toilet-roll holder!)

As much as I love them, I couldn’t bear to think of Veronika crashing about, pulling things down, or Thomas carefully repainting the place in some dreadful neutral colour. As for Grace, I don’t think she should live on the island at all–afraid it has unhappy memories for her.

I haven’t stopped missing Jimmy since the day he died. It’s like waking up with a stomach ache every day. Well, this will probably sound quite barmy but there is something about you that reminds me of my husband. The reason I fell in love with Jimmy, the reason I’m still in love with him, was his capacity for joy. That man could be happy in a way my family has never been. (I’m afraid we can be a miserable lot!) There was a moment when you were standing out on my balcony and you saw our resident kookaburra. You looked back towards me, and I thought, she’s got it too. Jimmy’s joyful look. I want someone joyful to live in my house. I also think the island needs someone like you–someone with that rare capacity for joy. It will be good for the house, good for everyone. Probably good for the business!

By the way, if Grace is still living on the island, perhaps you could consider a friendship. I think you would like her. Please excuse me for meddling. As my sister Rose will tell you, I’ve been a terrible meddler all my life. Still, as she may one day tell you, it seems to have all worked out rather well.

Well, that’s all I have to say.

Enjoy the house. I have attached a list of instructions you may find helpful. Don’t throw them away or I shall haunt you.

It was such a pleasure to meet you, Sophie, love.

Yours sincerely,

Connie Thrum

PS. I’m sure you have dozens of beaux, but there is a rather nice young man I feel would be very appropriate for you, who I hope you will meet as a result of moving into my house. I won’t say who he is, because although most of my meddling has been successful, I’ve had no luck at all matchmaking Rose and I’ve been trying to do so for over seventy years. All I’m saying is keep an eye out for him.

Sophie looks up to see her mother smiling radiantly, as if she has just read out a glowing report card, while her Dad has his shrewd fatherly ‘nobody’s going to put one over me’ expression.

‘A rare capacity for joy,’ says Gretel. ‘That’s lovely. I expect you inherited it from me. Well, I’ve changed my mind. I think you should absolutely accept the house!’

Hans says, ‘I’m betting she’s put in some sort of clause that says you can’t sell it. She obviously wants you to live in it. Now, how expensive is the upkeep? Is the place falling apart? That’s what I’d like to know. And do you really want to be living there, Sophie, spreading your message of joy?’

‘Sarcasm!’ scolds Gretel.

They are interrupted by the arrival of the wine: a Gewürztraminer Sophie had selected. She tastes the wine as she’s been trained to do since she was thirteen years old: swirl, sniff, slosh in mouth, reflect with serious expression, smile decisively up at waiter and say graciously, ‘Lovely, thank you.’