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S imon was long gone by the time Rose woke. She was aware of the emptiness of the bungalow, stretching out in the pleasure of having the place to herself.

After showering, she padded about sipping coffee while she looked up across the fields towards the forest. A crow stalked about poking the earth. Everything seemed calm. It seemed like more than a week since the day that Simon was sedated, Emmeline had turned up out of the blue, and Sky broke in.

There were still two weeks before she need worry about Simon’s next transformation and Sky’s possible return. Recalling Emmeline’s evident disapproval of the bungalow Rose decided to look at the place objectively.

When Andrew had suggested buying it, she had paid little attention.

In the maelstrom of grief and distress, his suggestion had recalled the happiness of those childhood holidays breathing in the clean air and feeling safe, being a dot in the middle of nowhere, anonymous, deliciously lost. So she agreed, and Andrew had found the town, and then the bungalow.

‘It’s been a holiday let, a bit old fashioned, but pretty isolated,’ he’d said.

‘There’s just one neighbour who keeps himself to himself by all accounts.

We’ll kit out a room for Simon and work the other details out later.

It’ll give you both some space to work out what to do next while I’m still working on a means to control his condition. ’

‘What about our family home?’

‘Sell it.’

‘It’s all we have left of our parents. Besides, if we ever needed to get back into the city, we’d never be able to afford it.’

‘Then rent it out. Furnished or unfurnished. Give yourself a break Rose, you need to switch off for a bit.’

On the last day before moving out, Rose had walked round the family home much as she was doing now.

The furniture was mostly sold, some in storage.

The house was just a shell, new paint over the old, the familiar womb lining of books and curtains expelled.

Part of her felt like an intruder and part like a ghost. She could have walked round with her eyes closed.

Here was the room where her mother might have been working, here the room where she might have found her father dozing, here the room where Simon hid wildlife, here the room where she practised for the audition for the conservatoire, here the room where she and Simon sat after the funeral, picking at pizza because it was all there was in the freezer and they didn’t know what else to do.

Thinking about it now, Rose realised perhaps they should sell it but that was a conversation for another day.

Right now, the bungalow needed some love. There was no reason it couldn’t be a home. They could build an extension or convert the loft to make more space for him to work and/or a sound proofed room for her. The kitchen needed updating by about a decade and the bathroom by at least four.

Simon’s room had been hastily constructed to look like a room with a massive wardrobe and a large double bed crammed against the opposite wall. There was hardly any space for him to work.

Rose’s own room had been decorated sometime in the late 1980s. It was floral and frilly with a dust gathering pink carpet. She had no one but herself to please if she refurbished it. Without a man to compromise with, Rose thought of rich mauves and purples, rich femininity.

The spare room, was just that, spare. It was small. It could be an office perhaps, or her music room.

She started jotting down colours and ideas, then showering, closed her eyes and mentally traced her way through her tour of Kirkglen, to remember what she’d seen of hardware stores and suppliers.

She hadn’t been paying attention. Flicking through the internet while doing her hair didn’t help either.

Despite Emmeline’s protestations of modernity, the town had barely any presence on the web.

Opening the patio door, Rose stepped out into the morning.

The sun was well up but the chill surprised her and she walked round the small plot shivering.

It was a very simple space, which was a relief to her.

In the city, she had toyed with shrubs and pots.

She liked the idea of a vegetable plot, of eating with pride things she’d nurtured, their flavour and nutrition increased by her input.

But the reality was that since she was indifferent to cooking them, her commitment to rearing them was somewhat wobbly.

All the same, some garden furniture would be good .

Beyond the back fence, the slope of the meadow ran up to the forest. She wondered when the cattle or sheep would come.

At the moment, all she could see were crows and a heron.

Presumably Rob had a pond. Walking round the back of the property, she peered in through Simon’s window to see that all looked normal.

It was neat because Simon was neat. They were both neat.

Measuring with her eye into the available space, Rose worked out where they could put an extension, looked up at the roof to see how feasible a loft conversion would be.

Wouldn’t that mean losing the third bedroom?

It wasn’t really her area of expertise but she looked down to scribble on a piece of paper.

A shot fired some distance away made her jump and startled the birds in the field behind which flew over her head, shading the paper.

She moved round the end of the house where the windows of the bathroom and spare room were.

They faced roughly north and although now, in high summer, there was some sun, in winter, this area would be dark and cold.

Good for office space perhaps, though she could imagine looking out of the window along the road which led to Kirkglen round the curve of the hill and wishing herself away.

Jotting down ideas, Rose walked back round the back of the house and in through the patio doors.

She was about to pull them to, when she heard something.

A small noise came from inside the bungalow, like something being moved.

With her hair rising, Rose tiptoed into the bungalow.

Some sort of small animal must have crept inside while the doors were open.

A cat or something perhaps. Not that she’d seen any cats around.

She wasn’t sure why she was creeping, but she went as slow and quiet as she could, rounding the doorway of the sitting room until she was in the hall.

Emmeline was standing there, flicking through a book from the bookshelf.

‘Hello dear,’ she said.

Rose stopped in her tracks.

‘The door was open, and I called,’ said Emmeline, ‘but you didn’t answer. I thought maybe something was wrong, so I popped inside. I’m sure you don’t mind.’

Even though she knew it was deadlocked, Rose turned to the front door.

‘Oh not the front door, dear,’ explained Emmeline. ‘I knocked, but when you didn’t come, I popped my head in through the patio door. Are you quite well? Only you look rather pale.’

‘I didn’t hear you,’ said Rose. ‘I was only round the side of the house, I’m surprised you didn’t see me.

’ She turned to lead Emmeline back to the sitting room or better still, the front door, but Emmeline didn’t appear inclined to move.

Rather she weighed the book in her hands before replacing it and bending to peer at the remainder.

Rose was on the verge of putting her arm round the other woman’s shoulders to draw her away from the hall when straightened, made a visual sweep of the hallway, her eyes resting on each doorway, smiled and said: ‘I’d love a cup of tea. It’s a long old walk from town.’

‘Walk?!’ exclaimed Rose.

Emmeline, tall and sturdy was dressed in sensible brogues and trousers, a light sweater and carrying a formidable handbag. It would be possible to walk five miles like that, but hardly comfortable. She looked as if she’d simply come up the path, with no sign of exertion whatsoever.

‘I’m fitter than I look, I’ll have you know.’ She smiled, scanning Rose’s figure. ‘I gather Mr Henderson’s away from home? A shame, I do hope he’s well.’ Was there a subtle emphasis on the last word? ‘I see you’ve not yet quite settled in.’

The thought of more interrogation into her housewife skills was unbearable.

Taking a deep breath, Rose changed tack.

‘You don’t mind me calling you Emmeline do you?

’ Ignoring the other woman’s bridling, Rose ploughed on.

‘I’ve just realised I’m completely out of milk and tea-bags and quite possibly coffee.

And I was about to pop into town, so why don’t I drive you back and save you the walk? ’

Emmeline became very still. She looked round again, and peered into the sitting room, out onto the garden and the field beyond. She frowned just a little but then smiled.

‘Why not dear, it’ll give us time for a wee talk.’

Rose shut and locked the patio door as quickly as possible to reduce Emmeline’s snooping time, did a quick check in every room just in case Hester was there somehow. Picking up her bag, she ushered Emmeline out of the front door and double locked it behind her.

Across the road, Rob was just leaving. She smiled and waved and he half raised his hand in response before noting Emmeline. Frowning, he looked up and down the road for Emmeline’s car. Rose, standing behind her, shrugged.

‘Just taking Emmeline back to town, she walked here,’ she called. ‘Rehearsal still on?’

‘Uh-huh,’ said Rob, with a slight shake of his head.

For a second, Rose was confused and then remembered Emmeline’s feelings about the ceilidh. ‘Well, have a good time then,’ she said lamely. ‘I’m off to get some decorating materials in town.’

‘Good luck on that one,’ Rob answered, getting into his car and driving away.

Determined not to have a trip to town equivalent to ten minutes of nail pulling, Rose started the questions before Emmeline had finished pulling her seat-belt across her chest.

‘So, Mr McPherson, he’s…’