Page 3 of A Scottish Highland Surprise

My grandma’s detached cottage sat opposite a children’s play park, not far from my flat and my parents’ house in the picturesque little Scottish town of Briar Glen, which was described as the “Gateway to the Highlands”.

As we pulled up outside 94 Ferry Loan, the Sunday-morning church bells let out a languid, rusty peal and the hills beyond the park were studded with lilac heather, carrying wisps of melancholy mist.

Dad killed the ignition and twisted round to examine Mum beside him in the passenger seat. “Marnie.”

She was staring out of the window at the neat little house, with its cobalt door, tiny manicured lawn and tea-set planters, frothing with green and ivory tulips, hot pink pansies and buttery daffodils. I remember when Gran had spotted the crockery planters at the local garden centre several years ago. She’d taken to them straightaway and scuttled up to the customer service desk to arrange delivery.

Mum had thought she was obsessed but I smiled to myself at the recollection. They had always reminded me of something out of Alice in Wonderland.

“Come on,” sighed Mum, unclipping her seatbelt and squeezing my dad’s hand. “Let’s get on with it.”

Dad offered me a soft smile over his shoulder.

We all clambered out of the car and Dad led the way up the little concrete path. He unlocked Gran’s front door and it swung open.

I still expected her to be standing there, ready to bundle me into her arms with that throaty laugh of hers. She always wore delicate wafts of lavender-scented perfume.

Instead, there was a heavy silence. Her claret-carpeted hallway was empty except for her familiar oak bureau, still dotted with pictures of us all.

To the right was her sitting room, with its Paisley tie-back curtains, heavy stone fireplace, her squashy duck-egg-blue sofa and two armchairs.

More photographs sat in gilt frames: Mum and Dad before they were married, their youthful eyes sparkling; a six-year-old me and Gran on the sea front in Ayr, laughing as gulls wheeled overhead, the Scottish summer not dissuading us at all from devouring a mountainous ice-cream cone each.

“I don’t know where to start,” confessed Mum, looking bewildered.

Dad rested his hand on her shoulder. “Just take the things of Helena’s that mean the most to you. The clearance company said they will deal with the rest.”

Mum pushed her hands into the pockets of her black jeans and suggested we begin in the sitting room.

I stood for a moment after Mum and Dad drifted past me. Goodness knew how many times Gran and I had sat hunched at her circular wooden kitchen table, nursing cups of tea out of one of her beloved teapots and putting the world to rights. I would often confide in her about Castle Marrian and my frustrations, the occasional joys and more frequent endless demands from people who had no concept of real life.

Gran would sit, nodding and commiserating with me, as I let out my frustrations, her features handsome and regal.

When I had been younger, I used to try and guess which of her many teapots Gran would choose that day to make our brew. Would it be her Royal Albert Roses, her Wedgwood Butterfly Bloom or the Aynsley Blue Crocus set?

She had a number to choose from, so I invariably got it wrong, but on the odd occasion I did guess correctly, Gran would clap her hands with glee and present me with my “prize” – an extra-large slice of her celebrated chocolate fudge cake.

Even if I was wrong about what tea set she was going to use, the slice of cake always verged on the doorstop size anyway.

A lump of grief grew larger in my throat. Biting back tears, I turned in my glittery trainers and moved towards the kitchen door, so that I could give Mum and Dad a hand. I had to pull myself together. Mum was hurting too and I knew I had to be there for her.

As I was about to leave the kitchen, something made me draw up. An oblong white envelope was stashed behind one of Grandma’s teapots. All the other pots, cups and saucers were housed behind glass cabinets in the sitting room, but this teapot sat alone, close to the black and chrome toaster.

I frowned. That was odd. She was very particular about looking after her treasured tea sets. Why was that one sitting there alone and with an envelope propped behind it?

Perhaps it was an urgent bill that had to be paid. I reached for it. I was about to call Mum when I turned the envelope over in my hands. Sophie was written on the front in my grandmother’s dramatic, looped handwriting.

The surprise of seeing her handwriting dancing across the front of the envelope made my heart jolt.

I opened my mouth to call Mum and Dad, before snapping it shut again. I would open it first and then tell them what was inside. What if it was some dark, dramatic secret from my family’s past? Perhaps my mother had run away at sixteen and joined a thrash metal band and my real dad was an ageing rocker? Or maybe my Gran had worked for MI5 in her youth?

I almost laughed out loud. It was likely something far more mundane. There was no doubting Ken was my dad. We had the same generous, lopsided smile and would bite the inside of our mouth when we were worried about something. As for my gran being employed by the secret services, she wouldn’t have lasted five minutes. She couldn’t have kept that to herself, let alone state secrets.

I slid my finger along the seal and pulled out a folded sheet of crisp writing paper in the palest pink.

I started to read. My eyes were scanning what Gran had written, but my brain was fighting to keep up.

As the meaning of her words sank in, my stomach performed an impressive swooping motion, before diving to my feet and back up again. What had she done?