‘Do you want to open the gate?’ I asked Bertie.
Bertie jumped out of the car in response, pulling the gate open for us to pass through. He closed it behind us and we drove on, the track widening out, ancient native trees flanking us like sentries.
Cass pulled the car to a stop at the point the track forked. A signpost informed us that to our right was Lowen farm, and to our left was the lake.
‘I think we want the farm,’ said Cass, inching forward along the bumpy track.
‘Lake sounds nice. I wonder if there’s a lake house beside it?’ I said, picturing a spa. Didn’t Pamela Anderson live in a lake house? A whole new set of images came to mind.
The surrounding trees thinned out, livestock grazing among open clearings.
‘Wow,’ said Bertie, peering through the windscreen as a large, whitewashed building came into view.
Thick vines trailed up the outside of the house, reminding me of my dad’s knobbly fingers. Two large pots containing bare-branched trees framed a red front door. Beyond the main frontage, other buildings seemed to have been tacked on as an after-thought. A crooked lean-to clung to one side, and a hotchpotch of white-washed extensions made the house look like a big-bellied giant stretching out its legs.
‘Gemma told us to ask for Harry,’ said Cass, turning off the engine and climbing out of the car.
Bertie hung back as Cass marched towards the front door. I took his hand and gave him what I hoped to be a reassuring smile. ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘Remember, if you don’t like it here, we won’t come and stay.’
Bertie nodded, and we walked up to Cass who was already pulling on a wrought iron doorbell. We waited a good five minutes before Cass leaned forward and tried the door handle. ‘Open,’ she said, pushing open the door and stepping inside.
‘Cass,’ I hissed. ‘You can’t just walk into someone else's house.’
‘Watch me.’ She grinned and walked further into the entrance hall.
Bertie and I followed. Faded Victorian tiles in varying shades of blue covered the wide hallway floor. Several were chipped, the coat stand leaning drunkenly due to a missing tile beneath one of its legs. Any stain that once covered the banister had been worn off by years of hands, and a bucket stood at the bottom of the stairs, presumably to catch rainwater from a leak.
The sound of humming floated from a nearby room. ‘This way,’ said Cass.
We walked through a large, wood-panelled room, the longest dining table I’d ever seen filling its length. A mirror hung on one wall, an upright piano stood tucked into an alcove, and the scuffed floorboards shone with water from a mop and bucket leaning against a Welsh dresser.
‘Excuse me? Can I help you?’
We turned to see a rotund woman with rosy cheeks clutching a duster in one hand and a brush and dustpan in the other. She reminded me of all the farmer’s wives I’d read about in Enid Blyton books.
‘Hello,’ said Cass. ‘We’re looking for Harry.’
‘In the kitchen,’ said the woman with a smile. ‘I’m Maggie, by the way.’
‘Cass, Liv and Bertie. Pleased to meet you. I don’t suppose you could tell us how to get to the kitchen?’
Maggie laughed. ‘It’s not hard to find. Go through that door and you’re there.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. I wondered if Maggie was a paid employee or resident at Lowen Farm.
We walked through a door to the sight of a woman’s bottom. For a moment I wondered if she was practising the downward-dog right there in the kitchen, but then I realised she was reaching for something beneath a cupboard.
‘Come here, you little pest.’
Bertie giggled, and the woman turned her head. ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise we had visitors. Give me one sec.’ She continued ferreting around beneath the cupboard, her entire arm disappearing as far as the shoulder.
‘Got you.’ The woman straightened. Both me and Cass took a step back at the sight of a rodent, swinging in the air as the woman gripped tight to its tail. ‘Sorry, not the best of introductions, but I’ve been trying to catch this little thing for ages.’
The woman walked towards us, and Cass gripped onto my arm.
‘That’s so cool,’ said Bertie. He stepped forward and squinted at the wriggling rodent.
‘Bertie, don’t get too close to the rat,’ I squealed, picturing all the diseases my son could catch.
