They all turned to look towards the top of the garden. At the end of a stepping-stone path stood the studio, a wooden structure in which Isla had once spent many happy hours on her watercolours of the village. Rea had repainted the outside a pleasing deep grey-blue. In silence, the three took the path, unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Laurel breathed in the faint scent of old paint and gazed at the skylights studding the sloping roof. A stream of dust motes danced in the weak sunlight and for the first time since returning to Middledip she felt a semblance of peace. ‘This is going to be perfect.’

A whole community of spiders had taken up residence, judging by the number of old cobwebs amongst the beams above several new crates standing in the centre of the floor. Rea gestured towards them. ‘When your paintings were delivered I had them carried straight in here.’

‘Brilliant, thanks.’ Laurel patted the biggest crate. ‘There’s work to do before I’m ready to unpack them though.’ She opened a nearby cupboard to see Isla’s dried-up paints and brushes. ‘I feel guilty I never came in to clear Mum’s things before, but I suppose I was clinging on to a piece of her.’

Daisy opened another cupboard, exclaiming over watercolour paintings stored in portfolios. She took one out. ‘This says it’s St Margaret’s Church, Middledip. We don’t have a church.’

‘We used to, which is why we have Church Close.’ Rea slipped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. ‘Our great-grandfather was the vicar.’

Daisy looked up disbelievingly. ‘I’m the great-great-granddaughter to a vicar?’

‘The Reverend Glenn,’ Laurel confirmed. ‘Our family’s Middledip roots go deep. Mum used to love recreating scenes from old photos. Look, here’s the pub that’s now a coffee shop.’ She held the painting up for the others to see.

‘Wow, yeah, it’s The Angel.’ Daisy came closer to inspect the slightly buckled watercolour paper from more than twenty years ago. ‘Nan wasn’t as good as you.’

Laurel gave her a hug. ‘Nan didn’t do further education, then four years of uni. She had a nice touch, though, and made a useful second income from these nostalgic watercolours. Look at the luminosity of the streetlamp just coming on in the twilight and the way the light falls on the ornamental brickwork at the front of the pub. The artistic gene runs in our family.’

Daisy shrugged. ‘I suppose, though Mum’s about decorating and I’m more of a maker than an artist.’

‘It’s all artistic,’ Laurel assured her. ‘Rea, can you remember sitting in here with Mum, working on our own stuff? Trying charcoal, chalk, watercolours, oils or anything we could get our hands on?’

Rea’s face softened into a reminiscent smile. ‘She split her time between us equally but you were the best. Your clothes were always covered with paint.’