‘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, which were gorgeous. A smattering of calves. The whole place smelled of cow poo and crisp, Arctic air.
Some fairy lights were twinkling away on the rowan tree in front of the house. It had been planted a couple of hundred years ago to keep the demons at bay, according to Freya’s brilliantly Scottish father. She pressed her nose even closer to the window then screamed. ‘Looney! It’s snowing!!!’
She glanced round and couldn’t see her. Where was she? Hawaii didn’t come equipped with medieval ruins and snow. Izzy did a little happy dance. This was well worth the hours of Jack blithering on about how wretched Scotland was going to be when Austria was, obvs, going to be the absolute best time. Never mind the fact that Jack and Poppy were the ones who had refused to go with their grandparents. They were both obviously hurt, and vetoing the trip was their only means of sticking it to their father, but even so … Poppy had really hurt Luna’s feelings when she’d refused to sit next to her. Izzy had been impressed Charlotte hadn’t lost her temper or left them at the services. Her mother would’ve gone ballistic if she’d behaved so rudely. Theodora Yeats did not take to ingratitude. It was one of her mother’s perennial life lessons: Be grateful for what you do have, child. Not waste precious time aching for what you don’t.
Which was how, a year ago, when she’d had absolutely nothing, she’d forced herself to look beyond all that she had lost and ended up back here in the UK. It was amazing what looking for the good in life revealed.
Packing up their few possessions and moving back to the UK was probably the scariest thing Izzy had ever done. And that was saying something, considering her history. She’d naively thought what she had dubbed the ‘Nr Cardiff’ cottage would provide her with the most comfort. Solid evidence that her mother and father had shared something beyond an impassioned one-night stand. Proof family was the foundation of everything, even if it did come in non-traditional packaging.
It wasn’t the house, in the end, that had provided the comfort. It was her friendships. She’d been terrified that spring day, showing up with a child she hadn’t told anyone but Emily about. Holding so many secrets close to her chest. Apart from a bit of a catch-up, it had been like no time had passed at all. Everyone was exactly as she had remembered them. Emily, still sharp as a whip and scratchily caustic. Freya, able to turn her hand to anything and make it more beautiful. Charlotte was still the cake-maker. The organizer. The fixer.
Which was ultimately why she had accepted Charlotte’s offer to move into her granny flat, even after the ‘deadly mould’ in the Nr Cardiff cottage had turned out to be not so deadly. The black splotches had appeared courtesy of a dodgy bathroom fan and the damp Welsh weather. Emily had helped her sort an electrician and some hardcore cleaners. Freya had sent her countless emoticon messages and hilarious GIFs whenever her spirits had sagged, and Charlotte had organized for Izzy’s flat to become a holiday let, administered by a well-established company that had already booked several couples in for a ‘magical Welsh getaway’.
‘Look Mummy! Towels!’
Luna