‘I don’t care who hears me! You know when Mum was alive, she kept saying that you should make changes. She’s been gone seven years and what’s happened? Bugger all.’

‘Hm. Valerie always did spoil you.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything? I’m talking about saving this business.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ Bill Shefford insisted feebly.

‘Oh yeah? After you’ve consulted her, no doubt?’

‘Obviously, I won’t make decisions on something as major as this without consultation.’

‘“Consultation”? The person you should be consulting is not her. It’s me, your bloody business partner!’

There was a silence after this outburst. Then a new voice joined the discussion. Frankie’s. ‘And what’s this about her doing a book-keeping course?’

‘The education system wasn’t so good where she grew up. She’s got a lot of catching up to do.’

‘Oh yes?’ Frankie’s voice was larded with cynicism. ‘Sure you’re not lining her up to take over my job?’

‘I wouldn’t do that, Frankie. You know I wouldn’t.’

‘Wouldn’t you? You’d do anything she tells you to.’ The cynicism in Billy’s voice was laced with pain. ‘And why didn’t you tell me she was doing a car-maintenance evening class as well as the book-keeping? Thinking she’ll be able to replace me too, are you?’

‘Billy, son, you know it’s not like that. I do have some concept of loyalty.’

Carole looked up at the sound of the garage’s front door opening. A short, rather beautiful woman of Asian origin entered, just as Billy said, ‘And what kind of loyalty did you show to Mum’s memory by marrying her?’

‘Ah,’ said the new arrival, in very slightly accented English. ‘They are talking about me.’

THREE

Jude, Carole’s neighbour, was, as the French say, a woman who fitted her skin. And with the passage of the years, there was no lack of skin to fit. The precise definition of her contours was vague, because her dress style always involved a lot of floaty garments and light scarves. In the same way, the contours of the furniture in her sitting room were softened by a plethora of rugs and throws. Jude’s blonde hair was always piled up on top, secured in a gravity-defying structure of grips and pins. There was a natural warmth about her which, for men, invariably translated into sexual magnetism.

Jude was a healer whose sitting room in Woodside Cottage was her treatment space. She worked to her own timetable. Though she would be there for anyone in a crisis, she generally didn’t book in any appointments before ten in the morning. She liked the waking-up process to be gentle, and faced the world more happily after a cup of tea in bed.