Page 158 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

They moved through the small routines without saying much. Clean sheets shaken loose, the faint scent of detergent lifting as they spread them. Jean tucked the corners in, smoothing the cover flat.

‘The roads were busy,’ she said. ‘Took longer than I thought.’

‘You didn’t have to come all this way. You could have called.’

‘I wanted to see you.’

There had been a time – in a kitchen in Swansea, with pots of tea on the table, a cake or a tin of biscuits, Jean reading the paper. Not asking anything of Sammy other than to check she was doing her homework.

Jean brushed her hands once more down the cover. ‘There we are.’

‘Thank you,’ Sammy said.

She felt it then, all at once. The tiredness. It came up sharp, catching in her throat before she could push it back down. Sammy turned aside, a hand pressed to her mouth. She sat down hard on the bed. Jean lowered herself next to Sammy, rubbing her back like she used to when she was a teenager suffering an attack of hiccups.

Sammy wiped her face with the heel of her hand. ‘I’m going to fix this,’ she said, her voice rough.

Jean wrapped her arms around Sammy. ‘I know you will . . . I saw Chloe,’ Jean said.

Of course she had, that’s why Jean was here now. ‘How is she?’

‘She looked . . . settled, back in Swansea where she belongs.’

Jean got up and picked up a pillow, plumping it up, ‘Funny thing is, Chloe never worries about Chloe half as much as you do.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘Maybe not.’ Jean set the pillow down. ‘But I’ve known you a long time, love. The minute someone needs saving, you’re halfway out the door before they’ve even asked.’

‘That’s not what this is.’

Jean’s gaze held hers. ‘Then tell me what it is.’

Sammy opened her mouth. Nothing came out. ‘Don’t . . .’

But the protest died almost as soon as it left her mouth. Because this wasn’t new. Sammy had been picking up the pieces for Chloe for so long she could no longer remember where it had started.

Then a memory surfaced anyway. Heat shimmering above tarmac. The smell of cut grass. Chloe’s laughter ringing across a field. The summer they were fifteen.

The key was smaller than Sammy had expected.

Just a small brass thing Chloe was spinning on her teenage finger like it was nothing.

‘Where did you get that?’ Sammy asked.

Chloe grinned. ‘Relax. He leaves it in the same place every time.’

‘That’s not . . . Clo, you can’t . . .’

‘I’m not stealing it,’ Chloe said, already halfway across the kitchen. ‘I’m borrowing it.’

The back door banged open before Sammy could stop her. Warm air rushed in, sharp with that grassy smell from the strip of land behind the house. The sort of smell that stuck to your clothes.

‘Chloe . . .’

‘Come on.’ She jerked her head. ‘Don’t be boring.’

Sammy stopped in the doorway, watching Chloe striding down the garden path. Behind her, the house lay quiet. Chloe’s foster mum was at work. Him not due back until later. They shouldn’t even be near the shed, never mind actually . . . she didn’t want to finish that thought.