Jimmy wrenched himself free from his father’s grasp, and Mo turned in his arms and seized a handful of his strong black beard. ‘You shan’t say nasty things about Auntie Glenys,’ they shouted, almost in chorus, Jimmy adding, ‘If she hadn’t taken us away from Liverpool we’d likely have been dead by now, because Cyril Huxtable got it into his head we’d stolen something of his, and he nearly broke Mo’s arm once just because he thought I’d eaten a bit of his pie.’

‘Oh, Jimmy, thank you, but it really doesn’t matter,’ Glenys began, turning to retrace her steps along the path, but she was stopped by Jimmy’s hand grabbing her arm.

‘Don’t go, Auntie Glenys; our dad doesn’t know the truth and we need you to tell it,’ he said urgently. ‘And if he sends you away he can send us away as well, because we know you’re our friend, and have done nothing to hurt us in any way.’ He turned to look defiantly up into his father’s bearded face. ‘And if you think she’s like the Huxtables, what have starved and beaten us and never give us so much as a penny of the money you sent, then Mo and me don’t want to have anything to do with you. So there!’

Sam Trewin heaved a sigh. ‘All right, Miss whatever your name is, you’d best come into the kitchen. My in-laws won’t mind hearing the story again, and we need to hear your version of events. Come along.’

Glenys opened her mouth to say that she would do no such thing, but Mo seized one hand and Jimmy the other. ‘He don’t mean to be nasty, Auntie Glenys,’ Jimmy said urgently. ‘And you’d like to meet our mam’s parents, wouldn’t you? You must want to know the truth as badly as we do, and besides, where would you go? Back to Mrs Buttermilk’s?’

Glenys felt a sob rising up in her throat and choked it back. Jimmy had put his finger on the nub of the matter. She had talked about finding her relatives, but knew it was just a dream. She was alone, as she had always been, and unless she found a job within the next month to six weeks she would be in a parlous state indeed, with no money, no home, and no prospects. Unhappily, she followed the Trewin family into the kitchen. It was a large room, shabby but clean, and lamplit, for it was growing dusk outside. There was a blackleaded range in which a good fire burned, a square wooden table, a number of ladder-back chairs, and a low stone sink with two wooden draining boards. Glenys thought it felt homely and pleasant.

As they entered the kitchen, two elderly people seated on either side of the fire got shakily to their feet. They both smiled at the children, then turned to Sam. ‘So you were right, Sam; you thought they’d come here,’ the woman said. She turned back to Jimmy and Mo. ‘I’m your granny – your nain, as we say in Wales – and I welcome you to Weathercock Farm. This is my husband, your taid, and we’d be happy for you to live with us for as long as you should wish. Indeed, since you will inherit the farm one day, the sooner you move in here and get to know our ways the better. We’ve plenty of bedrooms.’ She smiled sadly and put out a caressing hand to ruffle Mo’s hair. ‘I can’t believe you are actually here, because until a few days ago we didn’t even know we had grandchildren. We knew Grace had died because your father sent us a telegram, but he didn’t mention you and he forgot to include your address, although we couldn’t have come to the funeral anyway, because Taid was in hospital with pneumonia, and far too ill to be moved.’ Nain wiped a tear from her eye as she remembered that terrible time.