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‘Meet Daisy,' Emily says as Lewis looks away awkwardly, having perhaps just realised my sister is breastfeeding.

‘Congratulations,' Lewis says. ‘That's great. How are you, Emily?'

‘Well, thank you. It was so much better than the last time,' Emily looks towards me with a smile on her lips, ‘thanks to my lovely midwife. This is Zara, my twin.'

‘We've met briefly,' Lewis says.

I smile, meeting his gaze. Lewis has been working at the farm for about a month now and we've said hello two or three times when I've been up to see Emily for her antenatal checks and have brought Gran to visit her. I touch my face – it's burning, and not because I'm sitting close to the range.

‘What's up with the lamb?' Murray asks as Lewis kicks a cardboard box out from under the oak table and pops the lamb into it, where it lies tucked up and shivering, its coat damp and curly.

‘This is one of triplets and the others are pushing it out,' Lewis starts. ‘I've tried putting it with another ewe who has a singleton, but she isn't having any of it. It's a bit of a wuss. I hope you don't mind me bringing it indoors, but it's getting cold and I can't use the heat lamps while the electricity's off.'

‘Come on in,' Murray says dryly. ‘Oh, I see you already have.'

Lewis grins. ‘Would you like to feed this one, Poppy?'

‘Yes, please.' Poppy's face glows as she plonks herself down beside the box.

Lewis warms a baby's bottle from the fridge in hot water on the range before testing the temperature on his wrist and handing it over to Poppy with instructions
. The lamb bleats plaintively – there is no other way to describe it – and waggles its tail as it feeds and butts its nose against the teat of the bottle, dripping milk over Poppy's fingers. She licks it off.

‘Poppy, I don't think you're supposed to do that,' I say.

‘It's nice,' she says, doing it again.

‘Let the lamb have it, please.' Murray rolls his eyes.

‘It's attention-seeking,' Mum comments. ‘She's bound to feel insecure.'

The lamb drains about half the milk and Lewis takes the bottle back.

‘Thank you. Are you going to stay up to give her another feed later?'

‘Yes, please,' she smiles, grabbing the opportunity to have a pet, even if it is only transitory, and maybe recognising a kindred spirit in the lamb that has been cast aside by its siblings.

‘Oh, don't encourage her,' Emily groans.

‘I don't think it matters what time Poppy goes to bed tonight,' Mum says. ‘None of you will sleep.'

‘I'm going to.' Murray yawns. ‘It's been a long day.'

‘Hey, what about me?' Emily gives him a gentle prod.

‘There's some dinner if you'd like it, Lewis,' Mum says.

‘And a glass of champagne to wet the baby's head,' Murray adds.

‘Thanks for the offer, but there's another ewe about to lamb. I need to get back out there.'

‘I must get going too,' I say, feeling ridiculously
disappointed that he has to leave so soon. ‘Gran will be wondering where I am.'

‘I'll fetch her up here tomorrow, if that's all right,' Mum says. ‘Dad can cover a couple of hours in the shop, can't you, Jim?'

My father grimaces at the thought, but says he'll do it.

‘I'll be back tomorrow for a home visit.' I watch Murray at his wife's side, the baby feeding at her breast and Poppy bouncing up and down on his knee and the pang of envy I felt earlier grows into a heavy ache in my chest. I love my sister and her family. I just wish I had one of my own. I almost did. I was this close with Paul and then my dream gradually unravelled.

Back in my car, I check my mobile to see if Paul's tried to get hold of me. He sent the last text three days ago, just to say hi, check I'm okay and ask if Emily had had her baby yet. I've texted him twice since. I touch the screen to bring up his number to call him, change my mind and drop the phone into my bag. What is that phrase Gran uses sometimes? Out of sight, out of mind.

CHAPTER TWO

Sherbet Lemons and Mint Humbugs

On the Tuesday morning a week after Daisy's birth, I wake up in the flat above the newsagent's, shower and grab a piece of toast and butter as I'm getting ready for work. It's dark outside and when I look out of the kitchen window across the street, listening to the purr of the ancient fridge, I can see the roofs of the buildings opposite sparkling with frost. Ron's float pulls up outside to deliver the milk.

I eat a second piece of toast, a cereal bar and a packet of smoky bacon crisps before I head downstairs past the green, pink and gold wallpaper that harks back to the 1980s, looking out for the elderly tabby cat that has taken offence to me living here.

At the bottom of the stairs, I walk along the corridor, past the cuckoo clock and through the multi-coloured plastic strips of the fly curtain which hangs across the doorway into the shop, where I find my flatmate
wobbling precariously on top of a set of wooden steps beside the display of old-fashioned sweets, the ones you buy from jars by weight and scooped into paper bags.

‘Good morning, Gran,' I say. ‘Are you sure that's a good idea?'

‘Zara, dear, have you seen your granddad?' Gran asks without answering my question. She clutches a jar of sherbet lemons to her chest. Her silver hair is swept back from her face and she wears small gold hoop earrings, a black dress, pink cardigan, black tights and purple slippers, and most remarkably, she is almost as round and cuddly as she is tall. I'm five foot four and the top of her head just reaches my shoulder – when we're standing on the same level, that is.

‘Please get down. Let me do that.'

Only last week, I found her on a stepladder, hanging a Union Jack in the window to complete her new display of patriotic red, white and blue china, which Uncle Nobby, who's actually my great uncle, bought at a knock-off price from some anonymous bloke at the Dog and Duck, and sold on to her. It's no wonder it was cheap – it looks cheap and it is cheap, but Gran insists there's no money in newspapers any more and she has to stock anything that sells, which means the place is looking more like a bric-a-brac stall than a newsagent's. She hasn't sold a single piece of china yet, but people do come in for sweets, lottery tickets, scratch-cards and cigarettes, and – most of all – to pass the time of day.

‘You promised me you'd keep your feet on the ground,' I remind her.

‘I'm fine,' she says brightly. ‘Please don't keep treating me like I'm some old biddy. Haven't you heard that eighty's the new twenty-five?'

‘I think you're rather exaggerating.' I can't help smiling as I make my way between the counter and the newspapers that are still stacked on the floor when they should be on the shelves or in the bag for the paper boy by now.

‘Not at all.' Gran tips her head slowly to one side. ‘You sound just like your mum. It's time you started going out again and having some fun, my lover.' She calls everyone ‘my lover' – it's a Devonian thing.

‘I do go out, although you're right, I'm struggling to remember when I could say I last had fun. Does mine and Claire's attempt at Zumba count?'

‘If it made you laugh and made your heart beat faster, then yes.'

‘It did. We were hysterical, shimmying and shaking our booty, and bumping into each other.' The steps rock and Gran wobbles. ‘Please get down. Here.' I reach up for the jar and place it next to the aniseed balls by the till before taking her hand and helping her down to safety. ‘Those papers should be sorted by now, shouldn't they?'

‘I know, but I've lost your granddad and I don't like to start the day without him.'

‘Let me do the papers and then I'll help you look for him. He can't have gone far.'

‘You mustn't make yourself late for work. Those babies won't wait.'

‘None of my ladies are due during the next week
– not that you can rely on due dates. I have a couple of antenatal checks, a clinic and a visit to the farm today, so I can spare a few minutes,' I pause for a moment. ‘Are you sure you haven't left him upstairs like you did the other day?'

Gran looks at me, her forehead crinkled and pale, and not for the first time, I wonder how much longer she will cope with running the shop and what will happen when she can't.

‘I'll check,' she begins, but I go for her, looking in the living room, where every surface is filled with Gran's ever-expanding herd of porcelain horses, and in her room, where Norris, the tabby cat, is lying curled up on a pillow on the bed. Keeping a close watch on Norris as a bloodcurdling growl crescendoes in his throat, I pick up the photo from the bedside cabinet and run for it before he can launch one of his full-scale attacks, which usually ends with me being scratched to pieces and on antibiotics. He's drawn blood four times so far, and I've no intention of letting him have a fifth attempt. I don't know what it is about animals; they always seem to go for me.

Halfway down the stairs, I glance at my granddad's whiskery smile in the picture as he and Gran stand arm-in-arm with the snow-covered Alps behind them on what was their last trip together to celebrate their sixtieth birthdays. Granddad passed away four years later when I was fourteen. Emily and I spent a lot of time with him, and I'll never forget how we'd sit on the counter after school while he fed us sweets until we felt sick.

‘Thank you, Zara.' Gran kisses the photo when I hand it over. Her eyes are soft with love and affection and I think back to Paul and our wedding vows. Our marriage didn't last, despite my best intentions, whereas Gran still thinks of herself as Granddad's wife.

‘One day I'll forget my head.' She places the picture in front of the mint humbugs. ‘Where is that boy?'

‘He's here.' James, the paper boy, is outside the shop, leaning his bike against the lamppost.

‘He looks as if his mother never feeds him,' Gran observes. ‘He's such a stringy bean.'

‘Shh,' I say, as the door opens and the bell jangles, announcing his arrival, stamping his feet and shaking the rain from his hair. He's tall and skinny for thirteen, with dark-rimmed glasses and braces on his teeth. His fingers are blue with cold.

‘Hi, James. I'm afraid we're running a little behind.' I grab the list and a pen from behind the till and start making my way through the papers, scribbling house numbers onto the top right-hand corners with black pen, and wondering how there can be so many people left who don't read the news on the Internet. I fold the papers over and hand them to James to pack.

‘Don't dawdle,' Gran says. ‘I'll make sure your envelope is waiting for you when you get back.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Witheridge,' James says, weighed down by the fluorescent yellow bag slung over his shoulder.

I check the time. I've really got to go. ‘See you later, Gran. Promise me, no more mountaineering.'

‘Have a good day, Zara,' she says, not promising anything. ‘Give little Daisy a hug from me and tell Poppy I'll see her soon.'

‘Will do.' I check my mobile for messages on the way to the surgery, which is a short walk away. I don't take my car unless I'm going out on my rounds or down to the centre in Talymouth.

Ben, or Dr Mackie to the older generation of Talyton St George, holds the door open for me as I enter the surgery. He's wearing his check shirt, jacket and tie, and looking very much the country GP.

‘Morning,' he says in a low voice, as though he's about to deliver bad news to a patient. He is very reserved, well-respected in Talyton St George, and a good doctor, but I can't say I really know him in the same way I know Nicci, the other GP in the practice. Ben is married to Emma, one of the Otter House vets, and has twin daughters, Elena and Lydia. ‘How are you today, Zara?'

‘I'm well, thank you,' I respond.

‘I wish everyone I met on a daily basis could say that,' and I smile even though it must be the hundredth time that I've heard him crack that joke. He has a crooked nose from playing rugby, but from the look of his growing waistline, his days as a sportsman have long gone. He scratches at the stubble at the side of his head – the rest of his scalp is bald, his hair having long gone too. ‘The twins have brought some friends back from nursery.'

‘That's nice,' I say, confused.

‘Head-lice,' he adds in explanation.

‘Oh, I see,' And I find myself scratching my head at the thought.

‘I dropped by to check on Emily and her new baby the other night. I hear all went well, thanks to our wonderful midwife. Good job, Zara.'

I thank him and he disappears into his consulting room, leaving me with Janet, the receptionist.

‘Have you seen Claire?' I ask her.

‘Not yet,'Janet says.

‘How long do you think it will be before she mentions the W-word?'

Janet smiles behind the lock of lank, mousy hair she holds across her mouth. She's very quiet for a receptionist; that's probably why Ben chose her, recognising a calm, kindred spirit. ‘About a minute?'

‘I'm guessing ten seconds.'

Claire is the practice nurse and one of my best friends – I've known her since we were at school. We took our A Levels in the sixth form and went off to do our degrees, hers with my sister in nursing and mine in midwifery, and we've ended up working from the same surgery.

‘I'm here.' Claire rushes into reception in her bright magenta uniform. She runs her fingers through her hair, which is currently dark brown at the roots and copper at the tips, while I start counting down the seconds. ‘What a nightmare! I overslept,' she explains. ‘Kev switched the alarm off before he left for an early shift.' Kevin's the local policeman and Claire's fiancé. ‘Sometimes I could kill him, the dopey sod. He's doing a spell in Traffic, but I can't see how he'll ever
catch anyone. Hey, I need to talk to you about the bridesmaids' dresses.'