‘You should keep the picture, if you find it,’ Hazel told her. ‘He was a part of your life, too.’

‘Well, at least I could scan it into the computer and send that to you. It may not be any good, of course. Dad’s talent was uneven, to be honest. I think he was planning to make a head, too, but I don’t know if he ever got around to it. Cass may remember if he did.’

‘I appreciate that, thank you. I was thinking of making a memory book about Stephen, for me and my sister’s children. Your dad’s picture could go in there.’

‘Like a photograph album?’

‘Like that, but with other bits and pieces in there too. Some of his sketches, letters …’

‘If you come across a photograph of him, from around the time we knew him, do you think you could send me a copy?’

‘Of course I will. You know, Mum always thought Stephen had feelings for one of you girls,’ said Hazel now. ‘She sort of guessed, from his letters. I’m glad it was you.’

Even at this great distance, Georgie could not prevent herself from a little flutter of pride. This, at least, she had won.

‘Cass isn’t as … I know she can come across as a bit hard, but she isn’t a bad person, in her heart.’

‘I know,’ said Hazel. ‘Families don’t always bring out the best in people.’

The two women drove north through the Snowdonia National Park. Dawn had spent some time in New Zealand and was struck by its similarity to the Welsh landscape, although the light struck her as different. The light in New Zealand was like clear water in a glass, whereas here it was as if an artist had rinsed an ink-tipped brush in that same water, leaving just a trace of black. They stopped at a steamed-up café for a break and to swap around. Dawn had offered to drive for the final leg of the journey, so Hazel would be free to look at the scenery.

The landscape was majestic but not welcoming. Water spilled everywhere: cascading out of rocks, the white spume tinted yellow; or unravelling through the flat green pasture in wide streams, like polished slate paths. As they rose, the tall wooded hillsides gave way to bare rock and scree. Sheep spotted the distant slopes like specks of spilled washing powder. Now and again a level field of marram grass housed the little domes of bedraggled red and yellow and blue tents. There was something pathetic in their primary colours, as if their brightness could offer any protection up here in the cold unyielding mist. They passed the steep terraces of a slate quarry. Black residue had tumbled down below, covering the ground.

‘Looks a lot like the stuff you have to clean off the floor of the oven, doesn’t it?’ said Dawn.