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She knew she wouldn’t enjoy her own drink while father and son sat upstairs, their mouths as dry as the bottom of an empty water tank after the system had been drained. Besides, did she really want the whole village to be told she was tight and stingy as well as unhinged? Accelerating across the carpet she stood at the bottom of the stairs and shouted up. “Anyone want a cuppa?”
    Tony ’s head appeared in a puff of coarse, cobwebbed festooned hair, his cheeks swollen into a bulbous pink grin. “Yes please. Milk and two sugars in each ta.”
    That was the closest they would get to an apology from her. And they all knew it. Besides, as Meli stomped back to the kitchen, she had the uncanny suspicion that the burst of activity overhead, a well timed reminder that Dick and Tony were there, was a bit too much of a coincidence. How had they known she was making a drink? Was there a spy hole in the ceiling? A quick scrutiny of the whitewashed plasterboard revealed nothing and eventually she put it down to workman ’s intuition, which was a bit like women’s intuition, only limited to areas concerning the stomach, sex and bodily functions.
    Later that morning, unable to get on with anything useful while the two Swindons ’ were in residence, Meli found herself crossing the drive and standing before the small single storey building that had once been stables, but was now her studio. This was her birthday present from Cal, an exceedingly generous present she might add. It was part of her dream, part of her reason for moving, yet every time she stood here she was plagued by double edged emotions: half joy, sweet and pleasurable like Cornish Ice Cream melting on her taste buds; half terrible sadness, like a cold fog clinging to her skin.
    She sucked on her quivering lower lip, deciding that she was becoming much too maudlin for her own good. Fumbling at the handle she pushed open the door and stumbled through. The studio had been designed to be bright, airy and functional, and it exceeded all three criteria. The original south facing windows had been enlarged, with a further two glass panels set between the black beams in the sloping roof, enticing sunlight to cram within the white painted walls and authentic flagstone floor. It was still sparsely furnished with just the bare necessities of her trade; the shelves, which ran the entire length of two walls, still empty; the workbench, carefully situated in the centre of the floor so she could work at it from any angle, still spotless, unmarked by blade or dye. There was even a small sink and worktop, where she could make herself a drink, or clean up. She ran her gaze round the sunny interior. It was still virginal, just waiting for her touch. Her blood surged through her veins, she really was so lucky. She just hoped that she could make a go of this. If not they would be in trouble.
    Suddenly, the mouth watering Cornish ice cream liquefied and turned to vinegar, and it was all she could do not to throw up. Being here, contemplating her plans, her uncertain future, made her recall the date. Frantically, she pumped a hand in front of her face, as though she was about to swoon as the temperature around her shot up a couple of degrees, finding herself in the broiling depths of the inner dungeon where she had locked away her ghosts. But today was their special day too. Spinning, she ran back to the lodge, battling the tears that were threatening to pop her eyeballs from their sockets, if not released.
    In the doorway she cannoned into Dick Swindon, making him drop his canvas tool bag on the floor at their feet with a resounding clatter of metal against metal. Panting, Meli could only mumble her apologies, as Mr. Swindon glowered down at her, clearly conveying his distain by exposing an upper row of protruding teeth in a manner that resembled a snarling hare.
    Sinking to his haunches, he began collecting together the plumbing odds and sods that had spewed from his bag. When Meli went to