‘Yes! Like Rapunzel. And it has a tower round the back.’
‘A tower? Really?’ Mum meets my eye questioningly and I shake my head without Evie noticing.
Mum chuckles and stands up straighter. ‘Always so fanciful,’ she says to me. ‘She reminds me of Selena when she was little.’
I stiffen, and Mum’s cheeks colour. She hardly ever mentions my cousin. It’s like an unspoken rule between us. ‘She’s nothing like Selena,’ I say, more harshly than I intend to.
‘No,’ Mum concedes. ‘I suppose not.’
I’ve tried not to think about Selena over the years, but returning to Wales has brought back the memories. She was practically a sister to me. Our dads were brothers and we were always in and out of each other’s houses, living just streets away from one another in Cardiff. But we haven’t spoken since we were eighteen. I never ask about her – and Mum doesn’t venture any information. I’m not even sure if they keep in touch, although I suspect they do. Mum was always so fond of her.
After a couple of minutes of Evie gabbling away about her day, and who she played with, Amelia comes trailing out, looking small and skinny under the weight of her backpack. Despite the drizzly weather she refuses to wear a coat and she looks cold in her fern-green jumper and grey skirt, her long dark hair whipped by the wind. At least she’s wearing tights. Every day I hope she’ll bounce out of school in the way she did in Twickenham, usually with a couple of other girls. But she’s always alone, her face sad. I’ve tried to make eye contact with a few of the other mothers at the school gates, hoping that if I make some friends Amelia will too, but although they’re polite to me, they cluster together in their impenetrable groups, chatting, while I stand awkwardly alone. The only other mother I’ve got talking to is called Sian, who has a daughter, Orla, in Amelia’s class. A few days ago, we exchanged numbers but Sian isn’t always at pick-up: more often than not, Orla walks home on her own – which I won’t allow Amelia to do yet.
‘Hi, Moo,’ I say, when she reaches us. It was the nickname Evie had for her when she was little. ‘Good day?’
‘Fine,’ she replies, in a tone that implies it was anything but. Her face brightens slightly when she spots Mum. ‘Hi, Nana.’
‘Hello, my darling,’ says Mum, wrapping Amelia in her arms and hugging her close. ‘Ooh, you feel cold. Haven’t you got a coat?’
She gives a half-giggle that lifts my spirits. ‘Coats aren’t cool.’
‘No, they’re warm,’ Mum jokes, linking one arm through Amelia’s and the other through Evie’s. And, for the first time since she arrived, I’m glad she’s here.
We amble along the high street, the girls and Mum in front. It’s one of the busiest times of the day, with families walking home from school, and there’s a lovely atmosphere in the village, with the sounds of laughter, chatter and the occasional bark of a dog. I wonder if Mum is taking in her surroundings. The hills and mountains that envelop the village are so beautiful that I can’t help but be wowed by them every time I see them. I take deep breaths, savouring the fresh air in my lungs and thinking, once again, how lucky we are to be away from the grime of London. There are some drawbacks, of course: the convenience of late-night shops, of having a Starbucks or Costa on every corner. But, so far, I’m enjoying the gentler pace of life.
Sometimes, on the way home from school, we’ll pop into the one and only café for a hot chocolate (Evie was most upset when we first arrived to find that they didn’t do a Babychino) or the local chemist to see grumpy Mrs Gummage (Amelia loves all the hairclips) but today we go straight back to the guesthouse.
‘What are the locals like?’ asks Mum, when we get back.
The girls have dumped their bags and shoes in the hallway and gone straight upstairs to their room.
‘I’ve not met many. There’s old Mr Collins next door. He’s a widower and about eighty. He walks with a stick,’ I say, as I shake off my coat and dump it in the little room off the hallway that will, eventually, be the office. It’s the only room we haven’t re-plastered and it’s very 1980s, with yellow striped wallpaper and cornflower-blue borders. ‘And I’ve met a young couple who live in one of the cottages opposite. Kath and Derek from the Seven Stars have been brilliant, passing on a few bookings because they were already full, and giving advice.’ I’d liked Kath immediately. Big, blonde and brassy, with a hearty laugh, she’d warmed to me too when she’d realized I was from Wales originally, and we talked about the Cardiff haunts of our youth. I don’t tell Mum about the locals who have been less than friendly, like Mrs Gummage in the chemist, and Lydia with mauve hair, who lives two doors down and scowls when she sees us.
‘Hmm,’ says Mum, as though she’s not listening. She’s surveying the hallway. ‘You need to get some kind of cupboard or coat rack. There’s nowhere to put coats and shoes.’
‘Yes, that’s true …’
‘And should we get some tourist brochures? I’ve seen other bed-and-breakfasts have them. It might be helpful for the guests to know what’s going on, details of local attractions, walks, that kind of thing. People come here for the hiking.’
I hadn’t thought of that. ‘It’s a great idea.’
She rewards me with a smile. Then she brushes against the living-room door and tuts when paint comes off on the elbow of her coat. ‘I thought you’d be further along than this,’ she snaps, taking off her coat and examining the paint stain. ‘We open in a few weeks.’
I swallow a retort. ‘Then it’s good you’ve arrived. We need as much help as we can get. And don’t say anything to Adrian. He doesn’t need to feel the pressure.’ She opens her mouth to speak but I continue: ‘I mean it, Mum. This is supposed to be a fresh start for us.’
She scowls but says no more. I leave her to it and run up the stairs to find Adrian.
The bedroom door is closed. I take a deep breath as I turn the handle. I still hate doors being closed. The memories are too fresh. I never know what I’m going to find behind them.
Adrian is lying on the bed with an arm flung over his face. For a moment – a half-second – I have the insane thought that he’s dead. I hurry over but he moves his arm and his eyes snap open when he senses me looming over his prostrate form.
He sits up, resting on his elbows. ‘Sorry. I’m knackered. I must have fallen asleep.’ He rubs his eyes. They’re red, and one is blood-shot. He still has white paint on his beard and hair. I feel a rush of love for him. He’s been working so hard on this renovation … too hard, considering.
I perch on the bed beside him. ‘Mum and I can take over the painting.’
‘I’ll be all right. But it’s good that she can help.’
We sit in silence for a while, and then I say, ‘It feels weird, doesn’t it, having this huge old house to ourselves?’
