laughed. A few years back, when the children had been six or seven, she’d been obsessed with building not just a gingerbread house but an entire village. St Andrew’s more like, their father had hooted, when he saw the large dining-room table covered in edible buildings.
‘Not this year.’ She steeled her face with a cheery smile so that she wouldn’t burst into tears and tell her big brother that everything was going horribly, horribly wrong. Her business was failing, her marriage was failing and she’d been absolutely completely idiotic to ever leave the farm and think she could make a success of her own business. Not that she was wallowing. (She was.) But if she confessed all her woes, she’d be admitting that the faith they’d put in her all those years ago when they’d packed her off to get her degree in art and textiles had been for nothing. And, of course, they would try to help. ‘Maybe we’ll do something when Charlotte gets here.’
Again she received one of those looks from her brother. The type that said he was watching her. That he had her back if she needed it. Little did he know.
‘I’m off to the cowshed, Dad. If you need anything—’
‘Off you go, fussbucket.’ Their father shooed him with his big, veiny hands. ‘Your sister’s got everything under control.’
Freya gave her brother’s bum a little play-kick and grinned at him. Best big brother ever. In the world. The universe. Perhaps she could nominate him for something. An OBE? Did they make dairy farmers caring for aging, Alzheimer’s-tinged parents Officers of the Order of the British Empire? She hoped so.
Regan came barrelling down the stairs. ‘Uncle Rocco! Are you going out to the cowshed? Can I come?’ She’d been obsessed with the winter calving.
‘That’s right, chicken.’ He pulled her plaits, which normally would have put her in paroxysms, but this time only elicited a beaming smile. ‘Put on your bibs. I’ll meet you in the boot room.’
Freya’s eyes drifted round the sitting room while she waited for her father to make up his mind about tea. The Christmas tree was glittering away in the corner. The stockings had been rehung by the vast inglenook fireplace without much care. She resisted rehanging them in a more aesthetically pleasing style. Regan had been trying to help.
Half the children’s presents were still strewn around the place. Books, of course, for Felix. Not the latest and greatest gaming console he’d been hoping for, but … Regan had been delighted with her stethoscope and veterinary dictionary. She’d been even more over the moon when she’d unwrapped her nan’s pedal-operated sewing machine. Freya wished she could’ve given her a few bolts of fabric to play around with. She smiled, remembering the endless trips her mum had made to the charity shops for old wool coats, satin dresses, cotton prints. Then on to the woollen mill, where they’d picked up reams of odd-shaped ends going for next to nothing. Their booty was the inspiration behind Freya’s first-ever pair of homemade throw pillows. She’d given a set to Charlotte for her wedding. Butterflies, if she remembered correctly.
‘Dad?’ Whether or not he wanted a cup of tea usually didn’t take this much consideration. Then again, normally she didn’t ask him. She just made one and he would scoop up the mug in one of his big old capable hands and give her a wink of thanks. This – the asking – was part of a series of cognitive tests she was trying to slip into their day-to-day chat as suggested by her own GP.
‘Aye,’ Freya’s father said. Then, ‘No.’
Crumbs. This was exactly the sort of thing Rocco had mentioned. Uncertainty in a man who never dithered. He was a doer. A farmer, first and foremost, but in whatever capacity, he was someone who always knew what to do. Rock solid. Vital. Even at the ripe old age of seventy-three which, suddenly, didn’t seem that old. A shiver shunted down Freya’s spine. This couldn’t be the beginning of the end. Even though it had been almost a year, it felt as if they’d only just lost her mum. She wasn’t up to losing her father, too.
She tried again, with a brighter smile this time. One she might have used for the children when they were toddlers.
‘I’m making one for Rocco and me.’
‘Sit down, love. Freya’ll do it. She’s probably got the kettle on already.’
Bollocks.
Izzy opened the built-in wardrobe door and squealed. Talk about a Tardis. The wardrobe was actually a door leading to a bathroom with a huge clawfoot bath, beyond which was another door that led to yet another bedroom.
She clapped when she saw Charlotte waving at her from the second bedroom. ‘I can’t believe Freya didn’t mention the fact her house was a bloody mansion!’
Charlotte’s eyes dipped to Luna.
Izzy made an oops face.
Charlotte was much more exacting than her on the ‘no swearing in front of the children’ front. Luna, she regretted to say, had heard much, much worse. Anyhoodle. They were here now. No longer in the car with two squabbling teens, a car-sick dog (someone had left one of Charlotte’s cakes out and Bonzer had taken advantage), and a poor, sweet Luna wondering what the hell she’d done to deserve Poppy’s wrath. Izzy would explain to her later that – unlike her own daddy, who had wisely left Izzy to raise Luna on her own – some daddies, like Poppy and Jack’s, waited until their children were old enough to figure out that they were lying, cheating bastards who went on spontaneous ski trips. Ski trips in France that kyboshed their annual, real family trip because their bottle-blonde girlfriend had unexpectedly gone into labour destroying everyone’s holiday.
All of which made her wonder if Luna had any half-siblings. She shook the thought away, bone-achingly grateful for having a child who had yet to ask about her father. She knew it would come one day, but until it did? She’d relish this beautiful Izzy-Luna cocoon for all it was worth.
A niggle of guilt needled through her. She’d yet to register at the GP’s in Sussex. She’d told herself she’d put it off because Charlotte had mentioned, more than once, the possibility of selling the house and moving nearer to the children’s school, but honestly …? The last scan had been fine; she’d wanted to focus on that memory rather than facing a new one and the possible nightmare that would ensue. The whole idea of having to go through everything again and then, perhaps, again had … well, it had given Izzy the excuse she’d wanted to put it off. Who wanted to find out if their cancer had come back? Anybody? Anybody? Yeah. Thought so.
She stuck her face to the window.
This was Izzy’s first proper trip to Scotland. She’d been to a few book festivals with her mum as a kid, but those had been whirlwind events that, whilst occasionally laced with a bit of bagpipe music and some shortbread, weren’t strictly Scottish experiences.
This, however, was proving to be exactly what she’d hoped it would be. The huge old stone farmhouse had been part of the landscape for over three hundred years, according to Freya’s rather hunky brother. It was practical, well lived-in and unbelievably welcoming. The ruins from the old castle (!!!!) had been there twice as long. There wasn’t much left to it. A square, roofless tower, with an aesthetically pleasing tumble of moss-covered stones, was the only obvious structure. Apparently Freya’s mum had once planned to put a shop in it, but … Freya had changed the subject as quickly as she’d brought it up. There were cows,
