Page 110 of The Bookshop By the Loch

Maeve eased her amber Golf into the kerb right outside Corinne’s house.

The man looked up with a cursory glance, before returning to the matter of navigating the mower up and down the lawn again. It was hypnotic watching him create those Wimbledon stripes.

“Ok,” exclaimed Maeve, reaching over to the back seat to retrieve her bag.

I reached down to my feet and scooped up my straw bag.

We both clambered out. The Sunday afternoon sunshine had slipped behind some tufts of cloud and a plane dipped lower, as it made its descent towards Glasgow Airport.

“Excuse me?” called Maeve over the top of her car roof. She made sure the doors were locked and moved closer, with me following up the rear. She whipped off her sunglasses and stashed them in her bag over her shoulder. “We’re sorry to bother you, but we wondered if we might be able to have a word with Corinne Young, please?”

The man clicked off his lawnmower. “Corinne’s my wife. I’m Fletcher Young. Can I ask what it’s about?”

Maeve straightened her dress. “It’s a bit delicate, Mr Young. I’m your wife’s half-sister.”

Fletcher Young’s hazel eyes grew larger. “Right. I see.” He eyed us both. “Is this to do with that letter my wife received last week?”

We both nodded.

He abandoned his fancy lawnmower and approached us, so that he was now standing facing us from over the top of his hedge. “Please don’t think I’m being rude, but I know my wife made it clear she has no interest in getting to know her birth mother.”

“She did say that,” conceded Maeve. She shot me a sideways look and then carried on talking. “But there’s something we think she should know. My mother didn’t want Corinne to feel coerced or emotionally blackmailed into seeing her, so she made us swear we wouldn’t say anything.”

Fletcher Young frowned from under his flop of salt and pepper hair. “Sorry? Not telling her what?”

Maeve blinked across at me, her eyes sorrowful.

“That Celeste is dying,” I replied as steadily as I could manage. “She has advanced osteoporosis, and now her heart is failing. The prognosis is weeks at best.”

Fletcher Young’s eyes widened. “Oh, I’m so very sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you,” replied Maeve. “That’s why we’ve come here this afternoon to explain to Corinne.”

At that moment, the sound of a piece of Scottish folk music danced out of one of the open sitting room windows of the house. It was lyrical and fast, thrumming and drumming, like something out of a lively ceilidh.

Then the music stopped.

“Fletch! Fletch!”

A tall, angular blonde woman, like an older, sportier version of Maeve, came tapping down the front steps. She was clutching an acoustic guitar in one hand. She was dressed in khaki shorts, a loose-fitting short-sleeved shirt and was barefoot. Her hair was pulled away from her face in a high ponytail and her legs were bearing a toffee-coloured tan. Soft lines fanned out from her eyes. She gave off an air of being younger than she was.

“I think I’ve finally nailed that section for next week’s concert. Oh.”

She drew up, blinking at the sight of Maeve and me on the pavement. “Hello.”

Corinne’s husband fixed her with a reassuring, if somewhat strained smile. “Darling. These two ladies are here to talk to you.”

“Oh? What about?”

He glanced over at us and then back to Corinne. “Your mum?”

Corinne stiffened. “Mum? What about her? Is she alright?”

He cringed under his deep, even tan. “No, sweetheart. You don’t understand.” His hands reached over and settled on top of his wife’s shoulders. “They aren’t here about Mary.”

Corinne froze as another plane scarred the sky overhead.

“They’re here to talk to you about Celeste Matthews. Your biological mother.”