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say you’re right,’ she admitted, reaching for a towel to wipe her hands. ‘And how many times have I told you not to clean your tools in my kitchen? The knife-sharpener chap will be here next week, wait for him.’
    ‘I need it sharp today, woman. As sharp as your tongue,’ Sam said with a grin, then popping a kiss on his wife’s cheek, sauntered off, leaving her flushed and smiling.
     
    At a little after five the following afternoon Chrissie was enjoying a quiet cup of tea seated on her little balcony, contentedly watching a few sailors venture out on to the water. A slight mist hung over the lake, shafts of sunlight giving it a golden hue. How lovely it was here, positively idyllic. She couldn’t remember feeling this happy for an age, save for the nudge of guilt at the back of her head over abandoning both her mother and Peter. Chrissie didwonder what sort of reception she would get when she finally returned home, a worry she tried to ignore. She’d rung Mrs Lawson who said Vanessa was fine, if a little grumpy. Since that was par for the course these days, Chrissie resolved to put the problem from her mind, for now. There were more pressing matters to be dealt with, like meeting her grandmother, for instance.
    Finishing her tea, she decided to explore the beautiful gardens and woodland that rose in terraces above the old house. Climbing a short rise of limestone steps she came upon a wide lawned area and suddenly there she was, deadheading the roses.
    Despite having no memory of her, Chrissie knew instinctively that this was she. There was something about the tall stately figure that reminded her so much of Vanessa. Save for the clothes. Chrissie had never seen her own mother look anything other than beautiful and stylish, always decked out in the very latest fashion, even when she was playing the invalid. But there was none of her mother’s elegance here.
    This woman wore a tweed skirt that had seen better days, a droopy navy-blue sweater with holes in the elbows, topped by a green quilted waistcoat, its pockets stuffed with a pair of secateurs and ball of baling twine. She could see little of her face or hair beneath a large, ramshackle straw hat, but could hear her humming softly to herself. A Vera Lynn number perhaps, or something from Gilbert and Sullivan? More likely Carmen .
    Chrissie instantly suffered from an attack of nerves. What should she say? Hello, I’m your long-lostgranddaughter, the one you’ve never even been interested in seeing. No, that wouldn’t do. Far too abrupt and confrontational. Perhaps her mother had been right to insist she not reveal her true identity, as she’d no wish to give the old dear a heart attack.
    Taking a breath, Chrissie stepped briskly forward. ‘What a wonderful view of the lake you have from here,’ she said, sticking out a hand. ‘Good morning, I’m so pleased to meet you. You must be Mrs Cowper?’
    The eyes that turned upon her were steel grey and took her measure slowly through narrowed slitted lids. No effort was made to take the proffered hand and at length Chrissie dropped it, a flush of embarrassment touching her cheeks. Perhaps she’d got it all wrong and this was just the gardener, after all. She cleared her throat. ‘I’m your new guest, Chrissie Emerson. Sorry if I’m being a bit presumptuous and pushy. Tend to act first and think later. Ever a fault of mine.’
    There came a sudden bark of laughter. ‘Me too. Far too impulsive and bossy for my own good, or so Hetty keeps telling me. Unfortunately, the old peepers aren’t quite what they used to be, and I seem to have mislaid my spectacles so didn’t at once recognise you. I remember you now, in the loft over the boathouse.’ And wiping both hands on the back of the disreputable skirt, she grasped one of Chrissie’s and wrung it hard. The grip was firm and strong, very much that of a young woman and not at all what you would expect from someone in her sixties.
    ‘I hope everything’s