A picture of the old stone mas that had been home for so long floated, unbidden, into her mind as she walked. A simple two-storey building, it hadn’t been a prestigious place, shambolic described it better. A shelter built long ago by a Breton farmer to house various animals and his family. Down the years, it had been enlarged and converted in a haphazard manner, the cows moved into a separate shelter and their previous accommodation had become the kitchen of the house. Belinda smiled, remembering how her father had done the final conversion and turned the old milking parlour at the back of the house into her bedroom. She’d loved that room, with its view out over the countryside and the field shelter for Lucky.

Lucky. That had been the hardest part of that awful day when her life had fallen apart. Knowing she was leaving the pony. Inconsolable, she’d cried for hours until her mother snapped at her. ‘For God’s sake, Belinda, shut up. I feel like crying too, but it won’t solve anything. Lucky will go to a good home. Your dad will make sure of that.’

Belinda did stop crying eventually, but only because she didn’t have any tears left to spill. Years later, she’d realised her difficult relationship with her mother had started its downward spiral that day with her lack of empathy over leaving Lucky. It was a breach of the mother–daughter bond that had never completely healed. Jean’s refusal to allow Belinda to even mention, let alone contact, her father ensured the fracture remained. Belinda was convinced her mother’s barely audible last words, ‘I’m so sorry’ and the deathbed promise to ‘Go and lay the ghosts’ she’d been coerced into making had been her mother’s final plea for forgiveness.

Belinda came out of her reverie with a start as BB gave a short sharp bark before racing off, heading for the cabin where Bernie lived. She hadn’t had a chance to question Alain about Bernie, they’d both been so busy. Perhaps this was her chance to get to know him. As she hurried to catch BB up, she saw a man weeding the small patch of garden that surrounded the cabin. The ginger cat was curled up fast asleep in the basket of the bicycle that was propped once again against the fence.

‘Bonjour,’ she said when she reached the man and held out her hand. ‘I’m Belinda Marshall. I was hoping to see Bernie.’

The man patted BB before he straightened up and shook her hand.

‘Demat. Bernie.’ He prodded his chest with a finger.