I edge my way to the door of the kitchen and spot the red book peeking from the old woman’s pocket. I point at it and whisper, ‘Swyn, tyrd â hwnna i mi.’ Bring that to me. I hold my breath while the book slides up and out of her pocket and glides into my outstretched hand. Neither of them notice. They are talking urgently, but in Welsh now, so I have no idea what they’re saying.

I flick through the book, page by page. Finally, I find a number for Carys and Dai Morgan, with Dai crossed out. I hope there’s not more than one Carys in the village.

The beeps of the phone buttons seem terribly loud. Will the two women hear?

I press the handset to my ear. It rings and rings. Please pick up, Carys.

I hear Bethan say, ‘I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Mam.’ It sounds like she’s moving towards the door.

Finally, a woman answers the phone. ‘Hello?’

I speak very quietly. ‘Hello, my name is Tulsi, my mum is Merry from Australia. Is she there with you?’

‘Tulsi! Where are you calling from, bach?’

She knows who I am! My legs are weak with relief. That must mean Mum is here. I’ve found Mum! ‘I’m at Bethan and her mum’s place. They won’t let me leave. And my friend –’

‘What are you doing?!’ shouts Bethan from the doorway, and I nearly drop the phone.

‘Sit tight, bach,’ says the woman on the phone. ‘Guard your energy. I’ll send Efa.’

‘Is Mum there?’ I ask Carys.

But Bethan snatches the phone from me and hangs it up. ‘How dare you use our phone!’ she says and turns to her mother. ‘See!?’

The old woman picks up her little phone book from the telephone table, her forehead wrinkled in confusion.

‘I’ll pay you for the phone call,’ I say. I fish around in my coat for one of Pete’s notes and hand it to Bethan. Please, please let Mum be with Carys.

Bethan stares at the note. I think I may have just given her a lot of money. She drops it as if it’s dirty and her mum hurriedly picks it up.

‘Efa’s coming to get me,’ I say. Will Mum come too? Maybe she’ll be here in a matter of minutes. I can’t help grinning – a wobbly, relief-soaked grin. ‘Who’s Efa?’ I ask.

‘Efa is Carys’s daughter,’ says the old woman. ‘But if you’re Carys’s niece, don’t you know Efa ...?’

‘Exactly my point,’ says Bethan. She stomps down the hallway and slams a door.

Fifteen minutes later there’s a pounding on the front door. ‘Deborah!’ calls a voice outside. ‘Are you there? Tulsi? It’s Efa.’

‘I’m here!’ I call.