As Helena worked, throwing the shuttle back and forth in a way she always felt helped her think more clearly, she calculated how many more blankets and throws she would have to do to have sufficient product for the next big wool show. World of Wool was in late May, and it was now the first week of April – she should be able to make enough. Woolly World, as she liked to call it, was more important than most shows, because as well as the general public other weavers would be there to see her specifically. Her weaving guru, Julia Coombes, whom she always thought of when she was weaving, had said good things about her and she owed it to her to produce good work. Julia had always been such an inspiration to her.

And she’d have to have lots of different things to show. Rectangular shapes – blankets, shawls and throws – on their own wouldn’t cut it; she’d also need plenty of fine woven fabric that could be made into waistcoats, jackets or even handbags.

Feeling a bit despondent and unexpectedly tired she decided it was probably delayed shock and that she should go and see her mother and tell her all about having to climb down a ladder into an enclosed space to rescue a kitten. She had been slightly tempted to text Amy but Amy would somehow manage to turn the conversation on to her favourite theme: getting Helena to try a dating app. Her mother would give her tea, cake and sympathy – much more what she wanted right now.

Chapter Two

Helena never went up the drive to her old childhood home without thinking how lovely it was. And, now it was a very upmarket Cotswolds bed and breakfast, Fairacres was even lovelier than it had been when she was a child. The garden, which had been a bit rambly and overgrown, was much neater now it had to have ‘kerb appeal’. But the atmosphere of homely comfort was still the first and lasting impression. High-end it might be, but it was supremely welcoming.

She drove round to the back of the house, leaving the sweeping drive for any guests who might be arriving. She went in through the back door and found her mother in the kitchen. A cooling tray with fingers of shortbread on it stood on the table, obviously just out of the oven. ‘Hi, Mum! Baking again? I’ve chosen my moment well.’

Gilly laughed. ‘There are some broken ones you can eat.’

‘Can’t give the guests broken biscuits,’ said Helena, picking up two shards of shortbread, still warm. ‘These are so good! No wonder I had to move out! You’d have had to remove the doors to extract me, I’d have been so fat.’