‘That’s great,’ I said, staving off the pins and needles of guilt my ulterior motive induced. ‘I’ll be arriving next Thursday.’

‘Marvellous.’

‘And I was wondering,’ I carried on, ‘if you might be able to find me somewhere cheap and cheerful to stay in Wynmouth. I’m still saving for my travels, after all.’

‘It would be easiest to stay in Wynter’s Lodge, wouldn’t it?’ David suggested.

That was the name given to the wooden house built by my father on the plantation site driveway. A lump lodged in my throat as I thought of the pretty porch swing and wraparound veranda. It had been a beautiful house, but I’d never felt at home there.

‘I suppose,’ I frowned, as I imagined myself opening it up and dusting it down.

‘No point spending money when you don’t need to, is there?’

‘I guess not,’ I conceded, but even as I agreed, I knew I was going to be confronted by more than the ghosts of Christmases past when I crossed the threshold.

‘That’s settled then,’ David happily sighed. ‘We’ll see you on the fourth. You’ll be here in time for the fireworks.’

I knew there were going to be fireworks, just not the sort he was expecting.

Chapter 2

After my call to David, I spent the next few days dithering over my decision, but on Thursday, as planned, I loaded up my ancient car, which had been an eighteenth birthday present from Dad and which I couldn’t bring myself to trade in even though it was becoming increasingly unreliable, and set off for Wynmouth, on the north Norfolk coast.

During the journey, and when I was tempted to turn back, I reminded myself that if I wanted to see my plans through properly then this visit really was the only option. However, rather than head straight to the lodge when I crossed the county border, I delayed the moment by taking a detour into the little coastal village. Ostensibly it was to see if anything had changed, but in reality, it was to buy a few more minutes in which to mentally prepare.

There were no new additions to Wynmouth as far as I could tell, but what had always been there looked, to my eyes at least, a little more cared for. The village sign, set in the green, had recently had a fresh lick of paint and the shops around the edge appeared smarter too. The pub, the Smuggler’s Inn, was sporting a different exterior colour and the row of brick and flint former fisherman’s cottages which led down to the beach were in good repair.