She was mature for her eight years, but I could still see glimpses of the little girl who adored her mum and loved to be tucked up in bed or have snuggles in the sofa. I knew it was the hardest thing to suddenly lose a parent, and Betsy was so young – it broke my heart and took all my strength not to cry over it in front of her. I prayed she could stay innocent for as long as possible and I wanted to do everything in my power to make that happen.
Her teacher had been quite sympathetic, but rules were rules, and the school couldn’t be too lenient with her. I decided that it wasn’t my job to discipline her. I just had to keep her occupied and safe.
We called in on Mum and Auntie Sue and I was determined to keep the visit brief and to the point. Auntie Sue gave Betsy a bit of a telling off, but Mum sent her straight to the biscuit tin – we were anything but consistent. I fidgeted while the two of them fussed around her. Was the phone in here somewhere?
‘About that box of Amy’s things…’
‘I gave it to you yesterday,’ Mum said, with a puzzled expression.
‘I know, it’s just that Amy’s phone should have been there – only it’s not.’
Now she really looked confused. ‘There was definitely a phone in there before.’
‘Yes, an iPhone,’ said Auntie Sue.
Mum shook her head. ‘No, it was one of those other ones. With a silver case.’
‘Are you sure it was silver?’
‘No, you’re right. Hannah’s has a silver case.’
Auntie Sue bit her lip. ‘Come to think of it, I’m not certain I do remember a phone.’
Mum shook her head. ‘Now you mention it…’
‘Okay.’ I held up a hand to stop them. ‘The phone is not there now. Could anyone have taken it from the box?’
‘No,’ said Mum, at the same time as Auntie Sue said, ‘Possibly.’
‘Oh dear.’ Mum looked anxiously at the ceiling. ‘I hope Amy won’t be cross with me.’
I’d figured there were fewer distractions for Betsy at Puffin Cottage, so I took her home with me and set her off on her homework assignment. She stretched out on her tummy on the living room floor and spread her books out in a fan around her.
We needed something for lunch but I didn’t have anything in the fridge, so I told Betsy to not move while I popped out to the shop. I opened the front door and almost fell on Mrs Wheeler holding an enormous basket.
‘Are you going somewhere, dear?’ She smiled up at me.
‘I was just popping out on an errand,’ I said, as she stepped past me into the kitchen and set the basket on the table. ‘I guess that plan is shelved, for now…’ I muttered under my breath.
‘What on earth is going on here?’ Mrs Wheeler asked, motioning to Betsy.
Betsy looked down and hid from her gaze. I wondered which of us looked more sheepish.
‘Betsy was naughty at school, Mrs Wheeler. She got in a bit of trouble and she has been sent home to think about how she can behave better in future.’
‘Not to worry, dear,’ Mrs Wheeler said, patting Betsy’s head. ‘We all make mistakes, it’s how we make them right that counts.’
Mrs Wheeler had brought quite a spread, with pea and ham soup, home-made scotch eggs and doorstop cheddar sandwiches, with a Victoria sponge for dessert. Betsy licked her lips and I sighed, wondering if I’d ever see my abs again.
‘I’ll have a tea please, Isabelle,’ Mrs Wheeler said, her blue eyes twinkling mischievously.
‘Gosh, right – yes, sorry, coming right up.’
I brought out three of the prettiest plates I’d found in the cupboard, with a pink and gold ribbon design around the edge, and set down some of the green cut-glass wine glasses that I thought were just adorable.
‘Do you mind if I take a photograph?’ I said, whipping out my iPhone.
‘Not at all.’ Mrs Wheeler draped her arm around Betsy and smiled for a portrait.
‘Sorry,’ I laughed, ‘but I meant a photo of the table.’
She looked at me like I was speaking another language. ‘Why would you take a photograph of the table? It’s not for that Instagram, is it?’
‘Mrs Wheeler, I’m impressed!’ I chuckled.
‘I am well aware of the concept of social media, although I can’t help thinking it’s all a dreadful waste of time. I see my friends in real life; I don’t need to see them on the screen. What does one hope to achieve by publishing a photograph of one’s lunch?’
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, stroking the green glass. ‘I find it very aesthetically pleasing, and so will thousands of people around the world.’
Mrs Wheeler couldn’t hide her glee at the compliment to her taste.
I repositioned a pretty pink plate into the frame. ‘You have some lovely pieces. They don’t make tableware like this anymore.’
It turned out that the plates had been a wedding gift to Mrs Wheeler and her late husband, and the green glasses had been part of a set that her father had brought back from Italy after the war. It seemed that everything in the cottage told a story and Mrs Wheeler could remember the history of each item, fixture, and detail of the home she had lived in as a newlywed.
I asked her about the things I loved most – the honeysuckle growing around the door, the original glass in the windows, and the ornate tiles in the hearth of the tiny upstairs fireplace. She delighted in sharing the origins of it all and with every story she shared, I fell deeper in love with Puffin Cottage.
Mrs Wheeler’s company was a great distraction, and I understood why my sister had enjoyed spending so much time with her. But within minutes of her leaving, I was back to stressing about Amy’s phone. Just follow the trail.
The sugar rush had left Betsy in
