‘Did you stop for lunch?’ He studied her, and she looked away, shaking her head. He’d been her confidant for as long as she could remember, especially when she couldn’t talk to Gran or Mum. Now she hadn’t the heart to tell him she couldn’t have afforded to stop for lunch. It would require an explanation and that was one thing she didn’t want to give. He had taken against Paul on that visit. It had been mutual, and it was one of the reasons she hadn’t seen her grandparents or her beloved Boskenna since that wet February weekend. She should have listened to Gramps. But hindsight was a wonderful thing.

He frowned as he manoeuvred into his favourite chair by the fireplace. ‘Will you be mother?’

She poured the tea and put a small spoonful of sugar into his cup. ‘Shall I cut you a slice of cake?’

He looked at her as if he was surprised to see her there. ‘Yes, thank you, just a small one, please.’

The silver handle of the cake slice was tarnished. Another job she could sort out for them. She had no idea how long she would be here, but the up-side of her situation was that she could be of use. She cut herself a big slice. This cake represented her childhood. Her life then had been divided into squares, time with Mum, time at school, time at Boskenna and time at friends’. The only misrepresentation was the size of the squares. The school and Boskenna squares should be larger. Now of course her life in cake would be far from neat. It would have a soggy bottom certainly and only one flavour.

Her mouth watered as she used the dainty cake fork. At least these were pristine. The explosion of sugar took moments to hit as it reached her empty stomach and blended with the caffeine. Over Gramps’ shoulder she could see dust collecting in the corners of the bookshelves. Mixed among the local history books behind him were some of her favourite children’s books. The cake dried in her mouth as she thought of her grandmother in bed upstairs.

‘Tell me about Gran.’

He picked up his cup. ‘It’s not good.’

There was nothing Lottie could say. Gramps looked into his coffee. His hand shook.

‘Doctor doesn’t say much.’ He turned to the view. ‘She’s eighty-five . . .’ Out of the window she could see Gribben Head basking in the sun. Lottie had never known a summer like it. The atmosphere in London had been so close, but here the air was fresh with the scent of the sea.

‘But she seemed fine a few months ago.’

‘True.’ His voice was wistful, and Lottie leapt to her feet.

She knelt at his side. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Me too. Me too.’ He patted her hand.

Her mother walked past the door without looking in the snug. Lottie stood.

‘I hope she’s OK.’ He gave her hand a squeeze. ‘Go to her.’ His voice was gentle, but Lottie understood. Gramps knew things weren’t easy with her and her mother, or for that matter between her mother and Gran. He was very intuitive. He’d read people well, especially Lottie.