‘Thanks. It was the worst kind of shock,’ Amy said, swallowing. ‘Hari was one of the few people in our year with a car, so he was helping transport stuff to the venue for a mate’s eighteenth birthday party later that day. He lost control going round a bend. The police said later that he’d just misjudged it– that he wasn’t used to having so much weight in the vehicle.’
‘Awful,’ Kit said simply, pulling Amy closer. After a moment, he asked: ‘Who’s that off to the side?’
Amy stifled a groan. She knew who he meant. Sam was also in the picture, though not the focus of it; he was standing on Amy’s other side, almost but not quite out of shot. His eyes were on Hari and Amy, his expression unreadable but his cheekbones razor-sharp in the murky light of whatever party they’d been at. His golden hair was mussed and there was a pint of cider in his hand.
‘Oh, no one– can’t actually remember his name,’ Amy said, regretting the lie as soon as she’d uttered it.
Kit raised an eyebrow in evident disbelief. ‘He looks to me like the kind of guy you’d remember,’ he said. ‘And he’s looking right at you, even though you’re dressed like Wednesday Addams.’
Amy shrugged, not wanting to dig herself any further into her fib. Not wanting to think about the silence that had swollen between her and Sam in the aftermath of Hari’s car crash– the fact he hadn’t sought her out at the funeral, that instead he’d seemed determined to stay away from her. She batted away a sudden recollection: Sam’s eyes briefly meeting hers across the aisle in the crematorium, full of sorrow, regret and something she could almost have mistaken for longing. He’d looked away almost immediately and she’d felt broken. Abandoned. Vulnerable. Stupid.
‘Do you fancy a walk around the village?’ she asked Kit. ‘We could take Bertie. Based on the amount he’s jumping around, I’m guessing he’s not been out today.’
‘Hell, yes!’ Kit said, seeming to forget the mystery man. ‘Show meeverything. Show me the pretty stream! And maybe the pub …?’
‘Done,’ Amy nodded. ‘The least I can do is buy you a pint for wrestling all my stuff up Gran’s stairs.’ She meant it, too: Grace’s staircase was narrow and practically vertical– the kind of construction that wouldn’t be allowed in a modern house. Amy wondered how Gran was managing it.
‘Too right,’ Kit said. ‘Could I use the loo before we go?’
Amy led him back down the stairs and through to the extension at the rear of the cottage. Like her bedroom, the bathroom was suspiciously clean. The mirror above the sink was gleaming, spotless, and there was a stack of neatly folded charcoal-grey towels on a stool next to the bath.
How was Gran staying on top of all this, Amy wondered. The housework, the dog, the cake … Not to mention the frontandback gardens, both of which looked immaculate, considering how slowly she seemed to be moving.
Amy returned to the kitchen where she found her grandmother reaching down to fetch a new bottle of washing-up liquid from the cupboard beneath the sink.
‘Don’t do that!’ Amy said, more sharply than she’d intended. ‘Let me get it.’
Grace stepped back and sighed, seeming both grateful for the help and annoyed that it was required.
‘I’m popping out to show Kit around the village,’ Amy said. ‘We thought maybe we could take Bertie with us, since he seems a bit lively.’
‘Yes, that would be a help– I’ll make Kit some sandwiches for the road while you’re out,’ Grace said, stretching up to retrieve Bertie’s harness and lead from the hook by the side door.
‘Gran, don’t!’ Amy yelped. ‘You’ll hurt yourself.’
Grace raised her hands, as if in defeat. Amy grabbed Bertie’s things, then stared at her as the dog leapt around joyfully at her feet.
‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’ she asked, eventually.
Grace drew herself up to her full height of five feet. She squared her shoulders and met Amy’s gaze without flinching– and, to Amy’s relief, it was suddenly very clear that despite the stiffness of her limbs, Grace was undiminished in spirit.
‘Don’t be so dramatic, love,’ Grace said, her voice steady and her tone just this side of dismissive.
‘Gran,’ Amy murmured, wanting to tread carefully but determined to get an answer. ‘I’m worried about you.’
‘Honestly, I amfine,’ Grace insisted. ‘You’ve nothing to be concerned about.’
‘But you’re clearly struggling,’ Amy said. ‘Is it your arthritis? It seems worse than ever. I’ve no idea how you’re keeping this place so spick and span, it must be—’
Something in Grace’s face shifted, and Amy felt understanding descend on her.
‘It’s not you, is it? Someone’s helping you out. Who is it? Barbara?’
‘She’s helping with the house, yes,’ Grace sighed. Then she stared at the floor like a child who’d been caught out in a lie.
‘If you don’t tell me right now why she’s cleaning for you, I’m going to ring Barbara and makehertell me,’ Amy declared.
‘You wouldn’t dare!’ Grace cried, outraged but visibly admiring of Amy’s nerve.
