Page 6 of A Scottish Country Escape

Grandma’s silver eyes crinkled. ‘Well, this new stationery shop of yours isn’t going to launch itself.’

Pebble Brook, formerly my childhood home and now where Gran and I lived together, was built from eighteenth-century Cornish stone. My dad had called on many of his building trade buddies thirty years ago when he and my mum had bought the old mill and had it renovated.

It was situated in a peaceful location, at the bottom of Pebble Brook Lane – hence the name. A wild rock-tangled brook gushed up and around the bend, held back by a grassy stone wall and topped off by the lit fence Dad had erected. There was a wooden balcony at the side of the house, where you could stand like a Scottish Juliet and oak-panelled doors to fit in with the natural ambience. Dad had installed a pillared entrance, which gave the former mill a more majestic air and two large ceramic pots, housing hot-pink cross-leaved heather, sat either side of the door.

Inside, the house boasted a rustic farmhouse-style kitchen. Mum had been keen on the unusual and had insisted on an antique apothecary cabinet in distressed pine as the centrepiece and breakfast table. Even the range hood above the stainless-steel cooker made a statement, as it was constructed of barnwood to conceal the basic vent. The walls of the kitchen were slicked in paint the colour of distressed cream, making the flagstone floor of smoky grey pop in contrast. Ceramic mugs and flower-stippled dainty saucers were distributed amongst the three pine cabinets that sat between the two sash windows. They boasted old-fashioned shutters to match the walls and ceilings.

The sitting room was opposite the kitchen – blonde wood fixtures, vanilla fireplace, and dashes of various shades of green cushions and ceramics.

Grandma’s annexe was located on the ground floor, towards the rear of the house. Dad had ensured she had her own en suite bathroom, furnished in white and claret, and her bedroom itself was a sea of pastel lemon and duck-egg blue, with a brass double bed. Billowing curtains in daffodil yellow and charming wooden furniture gave it a homely feel.

Opposite the downstairs cloakroom was a winding polished staircase that led up to what would now be my bedroom – again. I twitched my nose at the thought. I had intended to move back out again once the flat was sold and I could get rid of the last vestiges of Lloyd for good by giving him his half of the sale.

Just a day before we lost Mum and Dad, Mrs Fraser’s cottage, that overlooked the local rose garden, had been put up for sale. She had decided to move into residential care and it would have been perfect; still close by my family and to work at Brick by Brick, meaning I could help out Mum in Cassidy’s whenever she might need it.

But nobody could have predicted that Mum and Dad wouldn’t return from their holiday.

Mrs Fraser’s house sold quickly, as I suspected it would. But even if the property had still been available, I knew I couldn’t leave Grandma on her own here. Pebble Brook was gorgeous and would always be my family home, but now it would be like she was trapped, alone, living in a museum to my late parents.

At the moment, I had assorted chiffon scarves draped over the oval mirror in my bedroom and boxes regurgitating assorted bits and pieces that I hadn’t had the time or compunction to do anything about since moving back in.

When Lloyd and I split up, he wasted no time in suggesting we sell our furniture and magnanimously stated we would split the cost of whatever we made. At least that meant I hadn’t had to concern myself with storing furniture.

Mum and Dad’s bedroom was located across the hall from mine. Their door had eased itself open. I straightened my shoulders and took the briefest of glimpses inside, before closing it again.

I didn’t want to transform Pebble Brook into a mausoleum, but I knew I still wasn’t ready to head in there with Grandma and start sorting out Mum’s perfume and jewellery and Dad’s collection of rugby shirts. It was painful enough, seeing their holiday photographs and sage and butterscotch satin bedding.

Even Buster, Mum’s cuddly toy bulldog that Dad won for her at the local fair six years ago, was still propped up against their pillows.

One step at a time. At least I was galvanising myself to finally deal with Cassidy’s.

* * *

The house resonated with silence as Grandma and I tapped our way into the kitchen. I tugged off my heels and tossed them into the hall. My feet let out a sigh of relief as I gave them a rub.

‘You sit down,’ instructed Gran, indicating one of the high-backed chairs. ‘You look shattered.’

I shook my head, almost dislodging my haphazard bun. ‘I’m all right, Grandma. You take a seat and I’ll make the tea.’

I watched her throw off her cape and drape it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. She looked drained, but tried to disguise it with an element of positivity in her words. ‘Things won’t be the same again, but we are slowly learning to deal with it. That’s all anyone can do.’

I filled the teapot with gurgling water from the tap and watched the bubbles jostle against one another. ‘I need to keep busy,’ I managed to say, spotting one of Dad’s favourite mugs on the sideboard, ‘otherwise I’ll lose my mind. I think that’s been the problem the last year. I’ve just let the business fester, but not anymore.’

I busied myself with seeking out two mugs from the crockery cabinet. ‘I’m going to make a start on getting the shop knocked into shape. I’ve already made a to-do list and will work my way through it. I’ve got a couple of numbers for painters and decorators and I’ll give them a ring. I’ve started thinking about stock too and a suitable name for the business. I want to sell stationery that’s unique—’

Gran interrupted me as she materialised at my shoulder. She looked small and delicate, but insisted on bundling me into her arms. ‘Come here, darling.’

I propelled myself into her arms and buried myself in her shoulder.

‘I know you want to keep occupied, Elle, but I’m not prepared to see you exhaust yourself in the process.’

I pulled back and we exchanged watery smiles.

‘I’ve lost them, and I’m not prepared to lose my granddaughter well.’ She squeezed my bare upper arms. ‘Right then. One thing at a time, OK?’ She pointed one finger at our forlorn-looking mugs sitting by the teapot. ‘Tea first with a slice of that carrot cake you bought the other day. Then we get to work on turning Cassidy’s into a rival for Smythson.’

Chapter Five

The next week evaporated in a tornado of actioning and ticking off items on my to-do list for the transformation of my parents’ shop.