Page 41 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

I knew I should follow her lead. I beckoned him in. ‘Please look at Tilda’s paintings and take one. Whichever you like. There seems to be quite the eclectic mix.’

Reece’s cheeks coloured. ‘Thank you.’ He pulled up an old, rickety chair from the corner while I knelt down beside him.

We sat in silence for a time, revelling in the quiet, serene atmosphere with my grandmother’s presence everywhere.

The various swirling flower arrangements, angry sea landscapes and the odd, dynamic portrait she’d painted of people I didn’t recognise leapt out of the canvas. Reece was stationed in front of the first stack of paintings whilst I was looking through the second.

My attention drifted over each one, appreciating the swirls of colour, the dancing shadows and the textures.

I shot a sideways glance at Reece. He was studying a still life of a small vase of bluebells, together with a bowl of apples, an old wine bottle and a half-filled glass sat beside it. It gave the impression of some French, louche lunch.

Reece’s lips quivered. He raised one finger. ‘I see she still continued with her unique little moniker.’

I followed his gaze to where there was a discreet, tiny, yellow butterfly just visible on one of the table legs. ‘Oh yes. She’d never sign her name on any of her paintings, but she always slipped that little butterfly in somewhere.’

One of Rowan Bay harbour at dusk made me stop. It was the way my grandmother had made the sky look spilt with raspberry and rose golds. The water on the canvas seemed to swish under my fingertips.

Grandma had always been rather shy about her capabilities. Despite being a confident, together person, when it came to her creative prowess she was reticent. She would ignore our protestations that she should try to sell her work or attempt to have them exhibited. Instead, she insisted she wasn’t good enough and that gaining satisfaction and enjoyment from her art was what she cared about, not having them suspended from a wall or being bid for in some opulent auction room.

I admired a few more pictures. One was of a little girl with a pink flower in her hair and another was of a vase of sunflowers by a rainy bedroom window.

Reece was sighing with appreciation at a watercolour of the harbour lights at dawn.

I’d just started to take a look at a painting of a half-empty milk jug alongside a bowl of glossy pears when, beside me, Reece let out a gasp that made me jump.

‘Oh my God… Oh, Tilda…’

His eyes were big and glistening. He continued to stare at the painting for a few moments as if he couldn’t believe what he was looking at.

Finally, he took the portrait in both hands and turned it round to face me. His eyes were wide and shining. ‘Look what your grandmother painted, Rosie. Or should I say, who?’