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Emmeline pushed the clip into place with deliberation and rattled it to ensure if was fixed. She said softly: ‘In the churchyard these ten years’ then sighed.

I will not feel guilty for asking, thought Rose and replied gently ‘It’s awful isn’t it? Missing them?’

Emmeline changed the subject. ‘You like books I see.’

‘Yes, do you?’

‘Eh well, I am too busy to be much of a reader, you’ll understand, unless it’s informative or educational. I enjoy books about traditional crafts, you know, and give talks on them at the Guild when we haven’t a visiting speaker.’

‘Perhaps you could write one of your own?’

‘Well now, dear, I really don’t have time for writing, and copy-typing is the sort of menial secretarial role I was never interested in. But it’s a good idea. Perhaps I could dictate and you could type. It’s what you’re good at isn’t it? The only thing you’ve ever done? Typing I mean?’

I will not rise, thought Rose and said ‘Do you have any siblings?’

‘A sister,’ Emmeline said with finality.

‘Is she called Christabel?’

‘Whyever would she be called Christabel?’

‘I assumed maybe you were named after suffragettes,’ said Rose. ‘You know, girl-power, feminism, that sort of thing.’

‘Did you? Umphm, well no, that’s not her name. We are… estranged. Our views on what you call “girl-power” are somewhat different. She is, what you might think of as a feminist, determined to fight to be the same as men within the men’s camp. A practice doomed, in my view.’

Against her better judgement, Rose was intrigued. She struggled to keep her face neutral, aware that Emmeline had turned to face her and was scrutinising her profile as she drove.

‘Do you think women should know their place then?’

‘Yes, because that’s where the power lies.’

‘Power? Power in subservience?’

‘Whoever said anything about subservience dear? Or rather who do you believe I think is subservient? Where does the control lie?’

‘The hand that rocks the cradle?’

‘You should know dear.’

‘I haven’t a cradle,’ snapped Rose. ‘Have you?’

‘Never lose your temper, Miss Henderson,’ admonished Emmeline, turning her gaze back towards the road. They were nearing the town. It was quiet and calm.

‘Rose,’ said Rose. ‘I’m Rose.’

‘Ask yourself this Rose: who controls your home? Not - who pays the bills, but who knows where everything is, who plans ahead?’

‘I don’t do dusting. I hate laundry. I can’t cook.’

‘Well, that’s something you’re missing out on, but really dear, it’s not about the saucepan any more than it’s about the cradle.

It’s about knowledge. Anyway, you can park here and I can point out the ironmongers and hardware stores before I head home.

See over there - Higgins and Son? The one with the young woman going in through the door.

In a rather depressed green. The woman, not the door.

I believe it’s fashionable among some, though I do think she’s too old to wear a dress and leggings. ’

Rose looked across the street to see a woman heading into a shop which looked as if it had given up on modernisation shortly after the 1950s.

The windows were covered in a yellow film to protect their displays from fading in the sun.

As the display appeared to consist of ladders and pots of paint, this seemed a little excessive.

The woman referred to, wearing a pretty thigh length tunic in a subtle leaf print over black skinny jeans was just slipping through the door, its peeling frame not advertising much faith in the wares within.

‘Thank you for the lift,’ said Emmeline, nodding as she turned away. ‘I do hope you’ll come to hear your brother speak to the Guild. And I’m sure you’ll find everything you need in Higgins’s.’

Rose crossed the road and perused the window display again.

She doubted Emmeline’s parting statement.

If what she could see were the most tempting items on offer, all she would be able to do was take the decor of the bungalow back even further into the twentieth century.

Still, they might have more details about tradesmen than she’d got from the library.

Straightening her shoulders she went inside to find herself surrounded by dusty chaos .

Doubtless the proprietor - presumably the man currently hunched over a low drawer behind the ancient wooden counter digging around for something - could have found anything you asked for in seconds, but there was no hope for the customer.

There was no apparent order. Diverse door-knobs nestled among screwdrivers, toilet brushes and lengths of chain.

A crowbar was propped up against a dusty glass vase.

Superglue lay on the edge of a shelf at toddler level and higher up a handwritten sign on a piece of card suggested that you could find imperial size bath plugs in a variety of sizes inside a floral chamberpot.

The woman in green who had been leaning forwards over the counter to watch the rummaging turned at the sound of the doorbell and smiled at Rose.

‘Are you looking for a magic lamp by any chance?’ she asked, smiling.

Rose grinned back. ‘I could do with one,’ she said. ‘There’s a lot of redecorating to do in my place.’

‘Magnolia?’ suggested the woman with her eyebrows raised.

‘Preferably not.’

‘Although, it’s probably fashionable if it’s called “sad oatmeal” in the brochure.’

Rose laughed.

‘I’m Iseult,’ said the woman, holding out her hand.

‘Just to save you the time and feeling as if you’re reading off a fact sheet, which I imagine you’ve been doing for at least a week, I guess you’re Rose Henderson who’s just moved into the old holiday let up the glen; everyone always asks about your brother as if you’re the housekeeper and it gets up your nose; Emmeline’s been trying to get you to join the Guild and Sam’s been trying to stop you; you’ve been sitting in on Rob’s ceilidh practice and you play the cello incredibly well. Have I missed anything?’

Rose was about to respond when the shop keeper suddenly sprang up behind the counter like a jack-in-a-box brandishing a china floral light pull.

‘Here you are! Knew I had one somewhere!’

‘Ooh dear,’ said Iseult, perusing it with a frown. ‘Really? Roses?’

‘I have this plain one.’ Holding up the alternative, the shopkeeper looked embarrassed, ‘But it’s very dull. Nothing pretty about it at all.’

‘That’s much better, thank you,’ Iseult paid for it and turned to Rose.

‘Whatever you’re looking for, it’ll be here somewhere.

I suspect you’ve got a really skewed picture of the place.

We’re all quite normal really.’ She crossed eyes, poked out her tongue, reverted to normal and grinned.

Putting the light pull in her laptop bag, she left Rose to the silence of the dark, dusty shop .

‘I supplied all the decorating stuff for your bungalow,’ said Mr Higgins, standing proudly. ‘It got done up the year before last. Nice isn’t it.’

‘Er,’ started Rose. It hadn’t occurred to her that the things were new, they looked so out of date.

Now she peered round, she could see a stack of tiles like the ones in the bathroom, including the showering pig, propped up to tempt exactly where it could be knocked to the floor by a passing shopper.

‘It’s lovely,’ she lied, ‘but I want to stamp my own personality. I was wondering what paint and tiles you have.’

‘I don’t understand young women,’ Mr Higgins muttered, coming round to the front of the counter to show Rose round. ‘Isn’t life drab enough without going for white tiles and walls? What’s wrong with flowers?’

He showed Rose the paint brochures, wallpaper books and tile options and wandered off to check his stock. Looking at the actual paint pots available, none of them were what she wanted.

‘Can order it in if you like,’ Mr Higgins called, as if reading her mind. ‘It would be here the day after tomorrow. And didn’t someone tell me you were musical? I think I got some nice tiles with violins on.’

‘Thanks, I’ll think about it,’ said Rose.

‘And maybe some wallpaper for your brother,’ said Mr Higgins. ‘If he’s got a sense of humour that is. It’s got wolves on.’

She stared, feeling the blood drain from her face.

‘Well, or giraffes or penguins really, only I thought, what with the pack up in the forest behind, you might find it funny. Obviously it’s kiddies’ wallpaper really. Just my little joke.’ Mr Higgins laughed at his own humour.

Rose forced out a chuckle. ’Thanks, I’ll think about it,’ she said. ‘Goodbye’.

Outside, she felt herself shaking. Mr Higgins had disappeared back into the intestines of his shop and the sun shone from a clear sky, but she felt cold.

I need a coffee.

In the cafe, she got herself a drink and went to sit at an empty table. The wheelchair posse was there again. She couldn’t see the miniature artist, but the others watched her, shifting position like cattle.

They’re just being people, she told herself. Nosey, but so what?

After a few sips, Rose stopped shaking. She got her phone out to research big home improvement stores in the nearest large town. Everytime she clicked on a link, the screen buffered or said there was no connection or it was a bad gateway.

Rose bit her lip. If she closed her eyes, she could see in her head the route from their family home to tens of DIY places, most of whom did same day delivery. Now she was lost in a sea of unknowns at the mercy of bored, nosey…

‘Didn’t find what you wanted?’ Rose opened her eyes and realised Iseult was sitting at the next table, a laptop open in front of her as she sipped tea.

‘I’m working from home today, but that just means constant interruptions from the kids, so I tend to sit in the cafe and leave them to my husband. He’s better with them anyway.’

‘Don’t you find it hard to concentrate with all these children in the cafe?’ said Rose.

‘They’re not mine, so I can legitimately ignore them. I can tune out when I want. Mr Higgins will get you what you want if you’re happy to wait a day or so. It’s nice here, honestly.’

‘What do you do?’ Rose changed the subject.

‘Business analyst. Freelance. My husband has a sort of project going at the moment - livestock with tourist potential. It’s driving me mad.

I come here so I don’t have to discuss the price of feed or renovations to the outbuildings.

Also, he can do it with the kids in tow.

It’s more fun grooming a pony than watching Mummy manhandle a spreadsheet apparently. ’

‘Ponies?’

‘Yup. Told you we’re quite normal. Trekking, petting zoo, home-baking, holiday lets. He’s got it all planned. Me, I can’t stand sheep and ponies. I suppose you’re used to animals.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘Well your brother being an expert, I sort of assumed he was the sort of little boy who kept frogs in his bedroom and so on.’

Rose relaxed and smiled. ‘Yes he was, but I was the one with a pet cat. And I learned to ride, a long time ago. It was good. But the project sounds like quite a venture. I got the impression that Emmeline McPherson disapproved of modern ideas.’

Iseult smirked. ‘It was great fun breaking it to her. But like I said, she’s not as bad as Sam and Rob have probably made out. They just don’t like her. She’s harmless enough really. Just got a bee in her bonnet and cares, really cares about the community. I talked her round in the end.’

‘Are you in the Guild then? I wouldn’t have thought it would appeal to a business analyst. Not that I’ve actually any clear idea what a business analyst does.’

‘Oh it’s an arcane art. If I told you, I’d have to kill you. Yes, I’m in the Guild. I was brought up in it really and it’s not just cookery, although I like fancy cooking, it’s how I relax. I don’t do tea-time for the kids. Tony does that.’

‘I didn’t realise you were a local.’

‘Born here,’ said Iseult. ‘I moved away as a kid, went to university, got a job, got a Tony, came home. Listen, I know it’s not the same as moving in cold like you have, but I sort of get how you feel and can sort of imagine what it’s like coming from a city life to this.

It’s all a bit overwhelming I guess, especially on top of losing your husband.

I imagine you just don’t know where to start. ’

‘Well I—’

‘How about coming to our next book group meeting? It’s at my place. The kids’ll be in bed but the ponies are cuter anyway. Second Tuesday in September, 8p.m. or whatever time you can get there.’

She scribbled on a paper napkin and handed Rose a map with an address and phone number.

‘If you don’t mind my saying so,’ she went on, sipping from her tea.

‘You look done in. I’d go home if I were you.

Before you know it, you’ll feel like you’ve been here forever.

I mean the glen not the cafe. Work out what you want from Mr Higgins and order it and if you like, I could round up some of the book club to help, though thinking about it, none of them are probably any good at painting or decorating. ’

Rose got up and put the napkin in her bag. ‘I just want to get on with things,’ she said. ‘I’m going to head out towards somewhere … bigger. But thanks for this, I might just come along. What are you reading?’

‘Goodness knows,’ said Iseult. ‘Imogen has this thing about not reading things with stickers on.’

‘Stickers?’

‘You know, buy one, get one half price, two for ￡7, as mentioned on radio/TV , that sort of thing. Imogen tends towards the classics. I just go for the home-made cake and gossip. You’ll be fine. Only honestly, go home and crash, you’ll feel tons better.’

‘You might be right,’ said Rose. She got up and left the cafe, stepping down into the street nearly colliding with a woman, a pushchair and a toddler clasping paper and crayons, who appeared to be the one from before .

Rose got into the car and thought about the empty bungalow waiting for her, the forest watching down on her, the open road and the wilderness encircling her.

I can’t bear it anymore, she thought, I need to get into civilisation. I’ll stay the night in a hotel, I haven’t any clothes, I’ll have to buy some. Maybe I won’t come back.

She started the engine and headed for the city. Five miles out of town, eleven miles from home, she lost control of the car.