‘I’ll go and give Ifan tacsi a ring,’ the porter said. He winked at Glenys, who was delving in her elderly leather handbag for her purse. ‘Don’t worry, miss. It ain’t that far by road to Deniol, so it shouldn’t break the bank.’ He pulled a gunmetal watch out of his waistcoat pocket and consulted it. ‘He’ll be here in no time; he’ll have just finished his tea,’ he said, and disappeared into the office. True to his word, the taxi drew up a few minutes later with a scream of brakes and a fat little man with ginger hair jumped out to help his passengers aboard. The porter watched as Glenys joined the children on the back seat. ‘All aboard. And rest assured, if that feller turns up again, he’ll get a pretty hot reception!’

Half an hour later they had arrived in the market town of Ruthin, Glenys having simply asked the driver to take them to the nearest lodging-house he could recommend.

‘You’ll find Mrs Buttermilk is just grand with kiddies, and knows every soul for miles around,’ their taxi driver had assured them, stopping his cab directly at the foot of eight steep steps leading to the front door of a tall thin house which leaned perilously towards the one on the opposite side of the street. A sign in the window read Vacancies. Glenys had looked at the quaint old house, the gleaming window panes and the net curtains looped back to show a cosy firelit interior, and had voiced her fears aloud. ‘Forgive me, but it looks expensive,’ she said. ‘As I told you, we’re looking for relatives who used to live in these parts, and it may be some while before we contact them, so we need something quite cheap. This house is so delightful that I imagine Mrs Buttermilk can charge what she likes.’

The taxi driver slewed in his seat to grin, revealing large yellowing teeth. ‘Aye, you’d be right in what you might call the normal way,’ he agreed, his grin widening. ‘But this house is halfway up Ffordd Hilbre, so whatever you want, the town square at the top or the recreation ground at the bottom, climb you must, and then there’s them eight steep steps. So Mrs Buttermilk’s lodgings are often vacant, and that means she has to keep her prices down.’ He named a sum which had Glenys smiling with relief and struggling out of the cab, but before she had done more than get one foot on the roadway the taxi driver gestured her back to her seat. ‘I’m used to them steps; if you’re willing, I’ll book a double and a single room and help you up with your luggage.’

So some time later, Glenys, Jimmy and Mo found themselves sitting in the cosy parlour which was set aside for guests and enjoying a cup of tea and a Welsh cake, liberally buttered, whilst in the big stone-flagged kitchen Mrs Buttermilk was preparing a meal for which she would charge them a very reasonable sum. Jimmy looked around at the comfortable chairs, the little bookcase upon which many of his favourite titles were displayed, and the log fire roaring up the chimney, and spoke through a mouthful of Welsh cake. ‘We’ve fallen on our feet this time, don’t you think, Auntie Glenys? I doesn’t care if we never find a Griffiths so long as we can stay at Ty Bryn. I’ve got a grand bedroom overlooking the street; it’s only small, but it’s cosy, like my little room in the Court before . . . oh, well, no point in lookin’ back.’