Why Montel would speak to her of their unborn child, she didn’t know. Maybe it was her own voice, bidding him to say that. But no, the voice was definitely Montel’s. She was sure of that and rejoiced that, in death, he did know of his child. And she would do all she could to carry through what he bid her to.

Lifting her eyes to the sky, Mags didn’t care about the rain beating on her face. Montel had taught her to let herself feel everything around her – even the rain – and to welcome it as a thing of beauty. ‘Everyzing has a beauty to it, including the rain. Welcome it and embrace it.’

Betsy let go of her hand and took it with her other hand. With her free arm she held Mags to her. Susan did the same. They cocooned her in their love and steered her towards where the vicar stood, holding a handful of earth. Taking it, Mags sprinkled it on the coffin. As she did so, the urge came to her to throw herself on top of the coffin and be buried with Montel. The thud of the wet earth brought her to her senses. ‘Goodbye, my darling. Take my love with you.’

She watched as Betsy threw the handful of earth she had picked up, and then Susan did the same. Her sobs were tearing through Mags. Stepping forward, she took Susan’s arm and helped her to step away from the grave.

The three women in Montel’s life – his dear friend, his new friend and the love of his life – formed a circle of support for each other as they hugged one another. Their hearts were broken, but Mags knew that their spirit wasn’t. She knew because her own spirit was strong. And as always, when others needed her, she found deep inside herself the urge to help them. ‘Come on, my dear friends, let’s go and collect the children and see that all these lovely folk, who have accepted us into their community, have helped us when we needed their help and have stood with us today, are welcomed into the warm and dry to share some refreshment with us.’

‘Aye. That’ll be our first step to our healing.’

‘It will be. We have many steps to take, but together we’ll get there. Come on, Susan – no more tears till we are on our own. We have our duty to do by these lovely people.’

Together they walked towards the cemetery gates and the carriage that would take them down the hill to the quayside inn where there were refreshments laid on, and lashings of good Scotch whisky to warm everyone through.

When they reached the quayside, Mags looked over to where the burnt-out shell of the boathouse stood, a black silhouette against the sky. By some miracle, the store at the back had hardly been damaged, and in it thirty or more of Montel’s paintings had survived, as had Betsy’s kiln and pottery wheel and a good stock of her vases and plates.