Teepee for Two Read online

  She pushed herself up again. The chores weren’t going to do themselves. As she crossed to the sitting room, she made a note to throw down a few of the lambs-wool rugs her mum used to dot about the place. The stone floor, so cool and wonderful in the summer, was a recipe for chilblains in winter.

  ‘Tea, Dad? I’ve got the spiced one that Auntie Helen gave you if you like. The chai?’

  He wouldn’t. He was a traditionalist. She didn’t know what her auntie Helen had been thinking. White and two sugars from as far back as she could remember.

  ‘All right, sis?’ Rocco leant into the sitting room, one of his big paw hands spanning the thick doorframe. If ever a man had been born into a farmer’s body, it was her brother. Thick, lightly curled dark hair flopping over beautiful green eyes. A physique perfectly suited to wandering amidst their towering herd of Friesians. ‘Dad? I’m off to the cowshed, all right? Buttercup and Jessamyn won’t be long now.’

  ‘Mmm … what was that, son?’ Their father, Lachlan, looked up from his own large hands, which he’d been staring at since Freya had asked him about tea.

  ‘Okay, Dad? Are you all right there in your chair? Want some more wood on the fire?’

  Bless. Rocco had just filled up the wood burner.

  ‘I was just asking him if he WANTED SOME TEA.’

  Rocco wiggled his finger in his ear and made a goofy face. ‘He’s a bit forgetful, Frey. Not going deaf.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Rocco shrugged and flashed her that bright smile of his, a bit of straw in his hair from the morning. He never let things get to him, except when it came to the animals. The dairy herd was his pride and joy. If he looked after himself the way he looked after the barns, he might have himself a wife by now.

  Only so many hours in the day, Frey.

  ‘So what’s my little sister up to, eh?’

  ‘Tea.’

  Rocco gave her one of those ‘you’re fooling no one’ looks. ‘No big projects to tackle? No gingerbread villages to make?’

  She laughed. A few years back, when the children had been six or seven, she’d been obsessed with building not just a gingerbread house but an entire village. St Andrew’s more like, their father had hooted, when he saw the large dining-room table covered in edible buildings.

  ‘Not this year.’ She steeled her face with a cheery smile so that she wouldn’t burst into tears and tell her big brother that everything was going horribly, horribly wrong. Her business was failing, her marriage was failing and she’d been absolutely completely idiotic to ever leave the farm and think she could make a success of her own business. Not that she was wallowing. (She was.) But if she confessed all her woes, she’d be admitting that the faith they’d put in her all those years ago when they’d packed her off to get her degree in art and textiles had been for nothing. And, of course, they would try to help. ‘Maybe we’ll do something when Charlotte gets here.’

  Again she received one of those looks from her brother. The type that said he was watching her. That he had her back if she needed it. Little did he know.

  ‘I’m off to the cowshed, Dad. If you need anything—’

  ‘Off you go, fussbucket.’ Their father shooed him with his big, veiny hands. ‘Your sister’s got everything under control.’

  Freya gave her brother’s bum a little play-kick and grinned at him. Best big brother ever. In the world. The universe. Perhaps she could nominate him for something. An OBE? Did they make dairy farmers caring for aging, Alzheimer’s-tinged parents Officers of the Order of the British Empire? She hoped so.

  Regan came barrelling down the stairs. ‘Uncle Rocco! Are you going out to the cowshed? Can I come?’ She’d been obsessed with the winter calving.

  ‘That’s right, chicken.’ He pulled her plaits, which normally would have put her in paroxysms, but this time only elicited a beaming smile. ‘Put on your bibs. I’ll meet you in the boot room.’

  Freya’s eyes drifted round the sitting room while she waited for her father to make up his mind about tea. The Christmas tree was glittering away in the corner. The stockings had been rehung by the vast inglenook fireplace without much care. She resisted rehanging them in a more aesthetically pleasing style. Regan had been trying to help.

  Half the children’s presents were still strewn around the place. Books, of course, for Felix. Not the latest and greatest gaming console he’d been hoping for, but … Regan had been delighted with her stethoscope and veterinary dictionary. She’d been even more over the moon when she’d unwrapped her nan’s pedal-operated sewing machine. Freya wished she could’ve given her a few bolts of fabric to play around with. She smiled, remembering the endless trips her mum had made to the charity shops for old wool coats, satin dresses, cotton prints. Then on to the woollen mill, where they’d picked up reams of odd-shaped ends going for next to nothing. Their booty was the inspiration behind Freya’s first-ever pair of homemade throw pillows. She’d given a set to Charlotte for her wedding. Butterflies, if she remembered correctly.

  ‘Dad?’ Whether or not he wanted a cup of tea usually didn’t take this much consideration. Then again, normally she didn’t ask him. She just made one and he would scoop up the mug in one of his big old capable hands and give her a wink of thanks. This – the asking – was part of a series of cognitive tests she was trying to slip into their day-to-day chat as suggested by her own GP.

  ‘Aye,’ Freya’s father said. Then, ‘No.’

  Crumbs. This was exactly the sort of thing Rocco had mentioned. Uncertainty in a man who never dithered. He was a doer. A farmer, first and foremost, but in whatever capacity, he was someone who always knew what to do. Rock solid. Vital. Even at the ripe old age of seventy-three which, suddenly, didn’t seem that old. A shiver shunted down Freya’s spine. This couldn’t be the beginning of the end. Even though it had been almost a year, it felt as if they’d only just lost her mum. She wasn’t up to losing her father, too.

  She tried again, with a brighter smile this time. One she might have used for the children when they were toddlers.

  ‘I’m making one for Rocco and me.’

  ‘Sit down, love. Freya’ll do it. She’s probably got the kettle on already.’

  Bollocks.

  Chapter 2

  Izzy opened the built-in wardrobe door and squealed. Talk about a Tardis. The wardrobe was actually a door leading to a bathroom with a huge clawfoot bath, beyond which was another door that led to yet another bedroom.

  She clapped when she saw Charlotte waving at her from the second bedroom. ‘I can’t believe Freya didn’t mention the fact her house was a bloody mansion!’

  Charlotte’s eyes dipped to Luna.

  Izzy made an oops face.

  Charlotte was much more exacting than her on the ‘no swearing in front of the children’ front. Luna, she regretted to say, had heard much, much worse. Anyhoodle. They were here now. No longer in the car with two squabbling teens, a car-sick dog (someone had left one of Charlotte’s cakes out and Bonzer had taken advantage), and a poor, sweet Luna wondering what the hell she’d done to deserve Poppy’s wrath. Izzy would explain to her later that – unlike her own daddy, who had wisely left Izzy to raise Luna on her own – some daddies, like Poppy and Jack’s, waited until their children were old enough to figure out that they were lying, cheating bastards who went on spontaneous ski trips. Ski trips in France that kyboshed their annual, real family trip because their bottle-blonde girlfriend had unexpectedly gone into labour destroying everyone’s holiday.

  All of which made her wonder if Luna had any half-siblings. She shook the thought away, bone-achingly grateful for having a child who had yet to ask about her father. She knew it would come one day, but until it did? She’d relish this beautiful Izzy-Luna cocoon for all it was worth.

  A niggle of guilt needled through her. She’d yet to register at the GP’s in Sussex. She’d told herself she’d put it off because Charlotte had mentioned, more than once, the possibility of selling the house and moving nearer to
the children’s school, but honestly …? The last scan had been fine; she’d wanted to focus on that memory rather than facing a new one and the possible nightmare that would ensue. The whole idea of having to go through everything again and then, perhaps, again had … well, it had given Izzy the excuse she’d wanted to put it off. Who wanted to find out if their cancer had come back? Anybody? Anybody? Yeah. Thought so.

  She stuck her face to the window.

  This was Izzy’s first proper trip to Scotland. She’d been to a few book festivals with her mum as a kid, but those had been whirlwind events that, whilst occasionally laced with a bit of bagpipe music and some shortbread, weren’t strictly Scottish experiences.

  This, however, was proving to be exactly what she’d hoped it would be. The huge old stone farmhouse had been part of the landscape for over three hundred years, according to Freya’s rather hunky brother. It was practical, well lived-in and unbelievably welcoming. The ruins from the old castle (!!!!) had been there twice as long. There wasn’t much left to it. A square, roofless tower, with an aesthetically pleasing tumble of moss-covered stones, was the only obvious structure. Apparently Freya’s mum had once planned to put a shop in it, but … Freya had changed the subject as quickly as she’d brought it up. There were cows, which were gorgeous. A smattering of calves. The whole place smelled of cow poo and crisp, Arctic air.

  Some fairy lights were twinkling away on the rowan tree in front of the house. It had been planted a couple of hundred years ago to keep the demons at bay, according to Freya’s brilliantly Scottish father. She pressed her nose even closer to the window then screamed. ‘Looney! It’s snowing!!!’

  She glanced round and couldn’t see her. Where was she? Hawaii didn’t come equipped with medieval ruins and snow. Izzy did a little happy dance. This was well worth the hours of Jack blithering on about how wretched Scotland was going to be when Austria was, obvs, going to be the absolute best time. Never mind the fact that Jack and Poppy were the ones who had refused to go with their grandparents. They were both obviously hurt, and vetoing the trip was their only means of sticking it to their father, but even so … Poppy had really hurt Luna’s feelings when she’d refused to sit next to her. Izzy had been impressed Charlotte hadn’t lost her temper or left them at the services. Her mother would’ve gone ballistic if she’d behaved so rudely. Theodora Yeats did not take to ingratitude. It was one of her mother’s perennial life lessons: Be grateful for what you do have, child. Not waste precious time aching for what you don’t.

  Which was how, a year ago, when she’d had absolutely nothing, she’d forced herself to look beyond all that she had lost and ended up back here in the UK. It was amazing what looking for the good in life revealed.

  Packing up their few possessions and moving back to the UK was probably the scariest thing Izzy had ever done. And that was saying something, considering her history. She’d naively thought what she had dubbed the ‘Nr Cardiff’ cottage would provide her with the most comfort. Solid evidence that her mother and father had shared something beyond an impassioned one-night stand. Proof family was the foundation of everything, even if it did come in non-traditional packaging.

  It wasn’t the house, in the end, that had provided the comfort. It was her friendships. She’d been terrified that spring day, showing up with a child she hadn’t told anyone but Emily about. Holding so many secrets close to her chest. Apart from a bit of a catch-up, it had been like no time had passed at all. Everyone was exactly as she had remembered them. Emily, still sharp as a whip and scratchily caustic. Freya, able to turn her hand to anything and make it more beautiful. Charlotte was still the cake-maker. The organizer. The fixer.

  Which was ultimately why she had accepted Charlotte’s offer to move into her granny flat, even after the ‘deadly mould’ in the Nr Cardiff cottage had turned out to be not so deadly. The black splotches had appeared courtesy of a dodgy bathroom fan and the damp Welsh weather. Emily had helped her sort an electrician and some hardcore cleaners. Freya had sent her countless emoticon messages and hilarious GIFs whenever her spirits had sagged, and Charlotte had organized for Izzy’s flat to become a holiday let, administered by a well-established company that had already booked several couples in for a ‘magical Welsh getaway’.

  ‘Look Mummy! Towels!’

  Luna ran back into their room from heaven-knew-where with a set of well-worn towels. She placed them on the bed then dived straight into tidily unpacking her things into a heavy wooden chest of drawers. Luna was the nester of the two of them.

  The niggles came back more powerfully. She really should reach out to Looney’s father. If Charlotte sold the house, there was no guarantee they’d be invited to move to her next place. Izzy’s house style (slob) was the total opposite to Charlotte’s (immaculate). Charlotte had been lovely about helping them out in a crisis, but they were out of sight in the granny flat. If she had to downsize and the Welsh cottage had already been let, then Izzy might well have to find yet another place to live.

  Oh, well. There was nothing she could do about it right now, and Charlotte had said she wouldn’t think about selling the house until the spring if at all, so …

  Izzy did a slow twirl in the centre of the room, soaking in the antler lighting fixtures, the dozen or so individually framed pressed flowers, the hand-carved lampstands shaped like owls. ‘It’s like staying in a quirky art museum.’ She shivered. ‘A museum without any heat.’

  Charlotte, who’d just walked through from her room, tugged her gilet a bit closer round her. It was a lovely shade of maroon that really made her green eyes ping out against her pale skin. Pale skin made paler by the cold? Or worry about Freya, in the wake of Monty having buggered off to his brother’s place. Or was it to his parents’? Somewhere near Bristol anyway.

  ‘I suppose it must cost quite a lot to heat the whole house with only Freya’s father and brother here on their own.’

  ‘Good point.’ Izzy nodded at the four-poster bed. ‘I thought Freya was the only arty-farty one, but you said her brother made this bed?’

  Charlotte nodded, a slightly wistful expression softening her features. Was it for the bed, or Freya’s hunky brother who had helped them haul in their nine thousand bags?

  Izzy ran her hand along the thick silver birch tree branch that made up one of the four posters of the huge, fairy-tale bed, then pounced on the squeaky mattress, beckoning for Luna and Charlotte to join her. ‘Did you see these cushions? I bet Freya made them. They have that Frey-Frey touch, don’t they?’

  She made fancy hand gestures round the flannel and wool throw pillows, as if she were a model on the shopping channel. They really were spectacular. Ink and tartan cut-outs stitched onto all sorts of different fabrics, with the odd embroidered embellishment. Red deer. Otters. Highland cattle. All of them anthropomorphized to look as though they were at some sort of Highland Mad Hatter’s tea party. They were wonderful. The embellishments showed off Freya’s amazing skill at capturing the tiniest details. A miniature kingfisher dipping its beak into an exquisite cup of tea. A stag, with its head cocked, as if it were listening to the sounds that the wind beyond the window was carrying.

  Luna, who hadn’t taken up the invitation to jump on the bed, was still exploring the room. Opening doors and drawers, oohing and aahing as she went. ‘Mum! Look! It’s a secret passageway!’ She held open a door that Izzy hadn’t spied, took a step in then hesitated. ‘Can you go first?’

  ‘Of course, Booboo!’ Izzy bounced over to the door. This sort of bravery she could do.

  She dramatically tiptoed along the short corridor and tried to open the door at the end of it. ‘Nope. Locked. Maybe it’s one of those olden days passages where the rich people snuck into one another’s rooms without the servants knowing.’

  Charlotte laughed, ‘Izzy, your imagination is about a thousand times more fertile than mine. I would’ve thought it was for the servants to carry wood to each of the rooms for the fires in the morning.’

  ‘Do they stil
l have servants?’ Luna was wide-eyed with wonder.

  ‘Fraid not, Booboo.’ Izzy fluffed her daughter’s billow of ringleted hair. ‘There aren’t many folk who have a fleet of servants to light their fires these days.’ Or men to sneak round and have secret affairs with, for that matter. Although if this led to Rocco’s room and she switched with Charlotte …

  Izzy jumped when someone knocked on the door then opened it. Freya’s father. ‘All right girls? I was just wondering if you fancied me lighting the fires in your rooms? Take the edge off.’

  Izzy and Charlotte burst out laughing. Charlotte instantly fell over herself apologizing, saying, yes, absolutely, that would be wonderful, but would it be a waste seeing as they were all going to be down in the kitchen soon enough?

  ‘Fair enough, then.’ Lachlan Burns, who still had a full thick shock of white hair and bright, engaged blue eyes, started to walk away and then doubled back on himself. ‘I think there are a few of those electric bar jobbies – you know, the heating elements. Any chance you fancy following me up to the attic and seeing if we can’t unearth them?’

  ‘Absolutely!’

  Izzy, Charlotte and Luna trooped behind him as they worked their way round the twisty-turny corridors to yet another door at the far end of the house.

  ‘Where does that go?’ Luna asked, clearly in awe of Lachlan who had a vague resemblance to Sean Connery.

  ‘Up to the attic. Untold treasures up there.’ He wiggled his eyebrows to great effect. Luna, it was clear to see, was smitten. Izzy felt a bit sad Looney wasn’t meeting ‘the old Freya.’ The one who could whip up enthusiasm for a fancy-dress party in the blink of an eye. The one who took the phrase ‘I wonder if …’ as a thrilling challenge rather than yet another chore. Poor Freya. Life seemed to have sucked the whimsy out of her lately.

  Charlotte whispered something about how Freya had wanted them to pay attention to whether or not he remembered things. Izzy nodded. Okay. She was worried about her dad. Her mum had died. Monty was weirdly gone. Bright side of the coin? She grew up in a freaking awesome house and – judging by Lachlan’s chitchat as he led them round the attic, pointing out his own grandmother’s rocking chair, an old saddle they used to put on a much-loved Highland cow and a huge stack of gilt frames Freya had bought with her ‘pin money’ at all of the old farm sales they’d been to – he had all his marbles in the right order.