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can save your breath. I’d never any intention of going and Daisy would not have expected me to be there. A hypocrite I will not be.’
    ‘She was your mother, and she’s dead.’
    ‘Well, I rather assumed that, since they were burying her.’
    Laura stifled a sigh. ‘Whatever happened between you two is over now.’
    ‘You have a sad talent for stating the obvious, Laura. Look, if you’ve only rung to castigate me for my lack of filial duty, you could have saved yourself the bother. It was my prerogative to decide, not yours. No doubt you’re ringing from some airport or other, on that smart phone of yours. Where is it you’re gadding off to this time?’
    ‘I’m still at the farm, actually. Anyway, I’m not the one always gadding about, that’s Felix. I’m the little pig who stays at home, remember? The one who keeps the home fires burning, except that I’m not any more.’
    ‘Stop talking in stupid riddles, Laura. If you’ve anything to say, say it in plain English.’
    She took a deep breath. ‘OK, what do you say to my starting up Daisy’s guesthouse again? Wouldn’t that be fun?’ The sound of breathing echoed loudly down the wire like the rattle of gunfire. ‘Dad, are you still there?’
    ‘I think there must be something wrong with this line, I thought you said you were going to start up Daisy’s guesthouse again.’
    ‘That’s exactly what I said. What do you think?’
    Again a short silence, followed by a sound very like a suppressed explosion of rage. ‘Does Felix know about this?’
    ‘Not yet, but I mean to tell him.’ Just as soon as she’d plucked up the courage, or got matters so far advanced there was nothing he could do to prevent it.
    ‘Ah, well he’ll soon put a stop to such nonsense. Really, Laura, what a child you are. Fancy ringing me up in the middle of my post-prandial nap to prattle on about some stupid fantasy you’re having.’
    ‘It’s not a fantasy. I mean to do it. I intend to find out as much as I can about Daisy, then follow in her footsteps.’
    ‘I’m coming over.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘You’ve clearly taken leave of your senses. I’m coming up. Not to that dratted farm. I’ll take a taxi from the station and you can meet me at The Golden Lion. I’ll buy you lunch.’ He named a date and time and before Laura had time to say whether or not this was convenient, she found herself talking to the dialling tone.
     
    Daisy’s relief was short lived. Almost at once she began to experience grave doubts. Miss Pratt’s house, only a short walk from the station, was a gaunt, rather forbidding grey stone property with tall, ornamental chimneys, mullioned windows, and a date - 1644, carved over the lintel. It stood in a large walled garden overlooking the street, the kind of house once occupied by a notable packhorse owner, a carrier of merchandise between the North and London, York, Kendal and Edinburgh. Not that Daisy would have recognised it as such, nor be able to imagine for one moment what it must feel like to own such a place.  
    Despite the evidence of new measures put into place for the sake of the war, splashes of white paint on kerbs, walls and railings so that people could find their way in the blackout, a poster stuck to a nearby lamp post urging women to offer their services to the local council for evacuation work, and stacks of sandbags everywhere, the tiny village seemed to be an embodiment of all her dreams. It’s neat, grey stone cottages with their bright gardens surrounding a wide expanse of village green was like something out of a picture book. The setting of the house was stunning. The panoply of blue-grey mountains that enfolded it, gleaming benignly in the early morning sunshine, quite took Daisy’s breath away. Never had she seen such a glorious place, such splendour, so much space! There were sheep grazing on the village green by an old, grey stone church that must have stood there for centuries. It was a beautiful, magical