'No, Scarlet, it isn't. It is just a tiny part of your mother's story. She was so much more than that . . . so much more.'

As soon as Gramps had parked outside our house, I ran up to my room and shoved the wedge under the door. It was dark outside, but I didn't turn on the light. I dragged my duvet with me under the bed, burrowed into it and curled up.

When Hannah arrived home from work she came upstairs and knocked, then tried the door. It wouldn't open more than half an inch. 'Scarlet?' she called through the crack. 'Are you in there?' You'd never guess she has an IQ of about a million. Of course I was in there-how else did she think a wedge got under the door?

'Yes,' I said.

'Gramps told me about your conversation in the car,' she said. 'I know you were upset to hear that Zoe needed hospital care.'

'I don't want to talk about it.'

'Who's been gossiping?'

'Hannah, can we please not talk about this?'

'You just come down when you're ready, then,' she said, and I heard her walking away. I don't know how many hours I hid in the dark. Time seemed to stop. I smelled supper and later I heard the boys shouting as they were on their way to bed, but it was as though all these familiar sounds and smells weren't anything to do with me. I needed to be in the dark. I needed to hide.

My beautiful memories of Mum were melting, like Ben's snowlady did when the sun came out. Nothing was what I'd thought. My memories were all wrong. Yet at the same time a nasty, wormy voice somewhere deep in my brain was whispering that I'd known it all along. I remembered her squeezing me too hard. I remembered the time she painted the whole house a really bright orange colour. I remembered her yelling at Dad, and how loud and harsh her voice could suddenly sound.

I remembered the worried, tight feeling I used to get when she seemed too happy to be true, or when she went into her bedroom and the door was locked for days. I remembered listening to her footsteps as she came up to the front door, and knowing what kind of a mood she'd be in just from the way she walked, and if it was the wrong kind of mood I'd wish she hadn't come home.

I had a thought. I wriggled out from under the bed and switched on the lamp. Then I reached far under the bed and pulled out a big cardboard box. It was my precious memories box, given to me by Nanette, a counsellor who helped us after Mum died. She'd suggested I decorate it, so I'd covered it in wrapping paper and painted Precious Memories on the lid. I was ten at the time, which is why I used such girly handwriting. It also explains why I stuck pink silk roses all over it. Ten-year-old girls do not have good taste.

The first thing inside the box was Mum's green cardigan. It was tiny, and she only ever did up one button. It looked really great on her. I pressed my nose into the wool; I could still catch her scent, though it was fading. The cardigan was made of cashmere and felt kitten-soft.

There was Maid of Sherwood. There were crumpled train tickets from our last trip to London, and a leaflet from the Science Museum with the dark pink kiss of Mum's mouth on it from where she'd blotted her lipstick. It looked like something Marilyn Monroe might have done. There was also a postcard she'd sent from Brighton, where she'd gone to be in a pantomime. The card had a picture of a pier, and her handwriting in gold pen.

I miss you, my gorgeous Scarlet! Is Dad looking after you? Has he made his famous pasta every night? I'm counting down the days. One more week and I'll be home.

It's a blast to be an ugly sister. Every afternoon I have to stick on a giglinormous fake nose. It looks crazily evil, like a shark's fin. The other ugly sister has to wear a fat suit under her dress! She gets very hot.

Here's a hundred kisses and hugs from me,

Mummy

All over the card she had drawn Xs and Os. I'd counted them. There were exactly one hundred, and they hardly left enough room for the stamp. I kissed the card and put it on top of the other things.

Next, there was a note from the tooth fairy. Mum had tried to disguise her handwriting, but it was obviously hers because she'd used the same gold pen: Thank you for this beautiful tooth. I can tell you brush and floss! We use only the very cleanest teeth to make our palace, and this one will be the cornerstone of a dazzling white colonnade. In payment, here is a golden pound of your mortal money. With love, T.F.

There were also three paper napkins from a restaurant. I was bored at Gramps' birthday meal out, so Mum got a pen from her bag and suggested we play head-body-legs. We came up with three absolutely hilarious creatures. Dad said we should sell them to the Tate Modern and get paid fifty thousand pounds each.

Mum died a few days after that. I found the pictures still in my pocket. So I kept them, because they were the last things that were made by me and her together.

At the bottom of the box was her photo album. My favourite was one taken on holiday at our caravan on the moors. She and I were sitting by the beck with our feet in the water and sunlight on our faces. She had both her arms around me, I had both mine around her and our cheeks were pressed together. She looked very, very happy. I was grinning from ear to ear. It was such a lovely picture.

I felt better after looking through the box. It didn't matter what anyone said, especially Vienna's Auntie Motormouth, who I hoped would be run over by a double-decker bus. My mother wasn't a total bitch and she wasn't a Venus flytrap. She played head-body-legs, and she loved us all.

One more thing I should mention: the album looked a bit weird. Actually, it looked very weird, and I never showed it to anybody. That's because lots of the photos had big holes cut out of them, all jagged around the edges. Some were only about half a photo.

That was me. I did it. I cut out all the pictures of Dad.

Eleven.

Joseph Christmas morning on the moors. He imagined his children waking, and fretted about them. He hoped they had stockings at the ends of their beds. He hoped they'd left mince pies for Santa Claus. He hoped they were happy.

Christmas with Zoe had always seemed enchanted. She filled their house with spice-scented candles, clouds of fairy lights and treasure troves in stockings. One Christmas morning Scarlet and Theo-creeping from their beds at five-found two outrageously fluffy kittens playing with the baubles on the tree. They were miniature cats, with creamy bodies and velvet-coffee faces and tails, scampering across the children's feet. It was Zoe's doing, of course; Zoe radiated magic. When she was around, nothing was ordinary.

The caravan had no Zoe. No magic. Joseph hauled himself out of bed and tried reading a thriller from the shelf. The bank statement he'd used as a bookmark caught his eye, and he began to worry about his joblessness. He'd trawled employment websites and searched the local paper in vain; a vague promise of summer washing-up work at one of the pubs was as close as he'd come to gainful employment.

At six, he realised he was going stir-crazy. It was Christmas Day; he couldn't spend it reading a very bad novel and pining for his children. He opened a drawer and leafed through a pile of tourist brochures. Castle Howard, Duncombe Park . . . ah, Pickering Church, with its fifteenth-century frescos. That would be open.

Dawn arrived in grey anticlimax. Pulling on wellingtons, Joseph set off across the beck and climbed to the uplands where-if he held his arm straight up in the air-he had a phone signal. He sent a text to Marie.

Happy Christmas Sis. Love J It was a mild morning. Mist hung above the beck. He could see smoke rising from the farmhouse chimney and Abigail's compact figure lugging a bucket towards the pigpen. She'd invited him for breakfast, and at eight he fronted up in her kitchen. Abigail stood at the range, stirring mushrooms. She had the radio on; a choirboy was piping 'Once in Royal David's City'.

'Now then,' she said laconically.

Joseph felt a surge of affection, and bent to kiss her wrinkled cheek. 'Happy Christmas.'

'Get away wi' you,' she snapped. 'Make yourself useful and clear a space at the table.'

Joseph obeyed. 'I thought I'd go to Pickering today,' he said. 'Take a look at the wall paintings. Haven't seen them for years.'

Abigail didn't seem to have heard. She threw bacon in with her mushrooms before announcing abruptly: 'Gus's father had a collapse yesterday.'

'Oh no! How's he doing?'

Abigail looked grim. 'He'll live, but they reckon he's a write-off. Gus has given notice here.'

'Can you replace him?'

'Maybe.' She looked Joseph in the eye. 'Would you give it a go?'

'Me?'

'Four days a week or thereabouts, depending on how busy we are. Winter's quiet but in the summer holidays I'm flat tacks. Minimum wage, but I'll waive your ground rent and power and supply some food. I know you're a bit high and mighty to be a labourer.'

'I'm not too high and mighty to be anything anymore,' said Joseph. 'Thank you, I'm grateful for the offer, but . . .'

'But?'

'I don't know the first thing about farming. I could probably drive the tractor but I can't fix it when it breaks down. I don't know one end of a sheep from the other. I can't deliver a lamb, or-'

'Never to worry. I can. It's mostly the campsite that needs managing. I've got Rosie doing the cleaning, which is a big help.'

'Rosie?'

'You haven't met her?' Abigail seemed to be suppressing a smile. 'That's a treat in store for you. She's been away for a week or so, but she's back now. She's a vit . . . hang on . . . viticulturist, by trade. Not much call for them around here.'

Her words slid over Joseph, whose mind was taken up by the offer of work. 'Can I think about this for a day or two?'

'If you must.'

And why not? Joseph thought later, as he followed Jessy's waving tail through the kissing gate. He didn't want to struggle through life in a city, knowing that people were whispering. Perhaps what Abigail was offering him was a little peace in this ancient landscape. He walked slowly, too deep in thought to notice the person emerging from the laundry block and making her way along a sheep trail. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and halted in mid-stride, only just in time to avoid collision.

'Sorry.' The voice was female; resonant and amused. 'I wasn't watching where I was going.'

Joseph blinked. It was the woman he'd seen crossing the beck that first night, and later in a dove-grey dawn. He remembered the claret skirt and sumptuous head of hair that seemed to twist out at every angle. A shapeless jersey was frayed at the sleeves.

'My fault,' he muttered.

'You'd think, with all this space, we'd manage not to bump into each other.'

'You would.'

She was carrying a basket full of clothes. Joseph wondered uneasily whether she was expecting him to make some kind of overture, perhaps invite her down to his caravan for coffee. The thought made him blanch. He could imagine precisely how the conversation would go. She'd ask him about himself and he'd be forced to tell his story. She would finish her coffee very quickly and leave.

'Happy Christmas,' she said.

'Er, yes. Happy Christmas.'

They each smiled with faint embarrassment, and passed on; though she flickered through his thoughts as he made his way down the valley. Nice smile . . . a young smile . . . not skinny, not like Zoe, curvy . . . Not from round here, definitely a southerner . . . How old? Thirties? Older? Couple of strands of silver in that hair. No attempt to dye them out. Funny combination, heavy boots and a long skirt and grey in her hair. A tree-hugger, obviously. Ageing hippie. The sort of burn-the-bra merchant Marie hangs out with.

Ah, yes. That had her nicely categorised. Satisfied, Joseph put her from his mind.

He felt self-conscious as he wandered around Pickering Church, conspicuously solo on a day of happy families. Yet there were worse things for a pariah to do than gape at the imaginings of artists who'd been dead five hundred years. Plastered walls glowed with martyred saints, with wicked torturers and executioners. Joseph sat down to gaze at the terrible mother-and-daughter act of Herodias and Salome, who demanded John the Baptist's head on a plate. To the medieval artist there were no grey areas, it seemed. Haloed saint or evil persecutor: that was the choice. Joseph had a fairly shrewd idea of how they would have depicted him.

He tried-really, he tried-to concentrate, to be a historian; but his children nagged and tugged until he physically ached. On a whim, he took out his phone and scrolled through the contacts list until he found the Wildes' number. It would be so easy to press call; he imagined hearing Scarlet's voice. Then he jammed the phone back into his pocket.

Abigail's farmhouse lay gilded in evening light as he splashed through the ford and into the yard. Jessy met him at the car. His caravan had become her second home, and she hauled herself inside without waiting for an invitation. He was glad of the company.

'Beer?' he offered, opening his shoebox of a fridge. 'No? Well, suit yourself. You won't mind if I do?'

The collie yawned, showing yellowed teeth. Joseph held up the bottle in salute to her, and was about to drink when footsteps shook the caravan. The next moment, a female voice called, 'Hello?'

He froze with the bottle held to his lips and his mind working fast. Hell! It's the tree-hugger. I don't need this . . . Any chance I could hide? No, don't be bloody daft, Scott, she knows you're in here . . . What if I just keep very still and hope she gets the hint and sods off? No, that's just rude. I'll have to open the door and tell her I'm busy.

She'd turned while she waited, and was facing away towards the beck. An unruly plait hung between her shoulder blades. As he opened the door, she swung round to face him with a smile on her lips and a wine bottle in her hands. 'I've got a deal for you,' she announced, before he could speak. 'I won't ask what you think you're doing alone on a campsite on the moors at Christmas, if you'll promise not to ask me the same question.'

Joseph hesitated; loneliness jostled with his desire to hide.

She held out her offering. 'This stuff's Australian. Not bad.'

'Thanks, but-'

'Not a single string attached, I assure you. I haven't come to seduce you or cry on your shoulder or even ask for a cup of sugar.'

Joseph took the bottle out of her hands. 'It's a hell of a mess in here,' he protested desperately, jerking his head towards the inside of the caravan. Keep out, keep out! Hell of a mess in my life.

'Thank heavens for that. In my book, tidiness is the first sign of madness.'

First sign of madness. Zoe at four in the morning, scrubbing every shelf in their kitchen with bleach. She was wearing nothing but an apron over a lacy bra and thong, but there was nothing erotic about the scene. The room was trashed, chairs up on the table, black and white tiles ankle deep in tins and jars and black bin bags. The chemical reek of bleach stung his nostrils. 'Disgusting,' Zoe yelped, rubber-gloved arms working frenziedly. 'Gotta get control of this place!' Back in their bedroom, the newborn Scarlet wailed with hunger.

Joseph hadn't understood what it meant. He hadn't known what was coming.

'If you're right,' he said now, standing back to let his visitor in, 'I must be awfully sane.'

She swung confidently past him, arms folded in the ragged sweater. 'Luxury!' she cried, as she reached the sitting area. 'Bloomin' luxury! I'm frozen to death in a VW kombi, and you're down here with sofas and rugs and bookcases and'-she opened the bathroom door-'I don't believe it. A cute little shower!'

'I live in a palace.'

'Does this palace come equipped with a corkscrew?'

'Sorry. Just a minute . . .' Joseph pulled open the cutlery drawer and held up a rusty corkscrew. 'All mod cons.'

He was beginning to enjoy himself, though he wouldn't have believed it possible ten minutes earlier. It had been years since he'd had a normal conversation with a woman under eighty. He hastily washed two glasses (pesky mice-they got everywhere) and splashed wine into them.

'Rosemary Sutton,' she said as she took one. 'Rosie will do.'

'Aha! The viticulturist.'

'No, the cleaner.' She moved to look out of a window, and Joseph joined her. The beck was submerged in violet shadow, but the moors blazed in the last fire of the day.

'I feel like running up there to stand in the sunlight,' said Rosie, with a touch of melancholy. 'I never want the day to end. But it would be gone by the time I arrived.'

'Have you seen this place in midsummer?' asked Joseph. 'No? Well, come back then, if you don't want the day to end. There's still a gleam in the sky at eleven, and the dawn chorus starts tuning up at two.'

Even as they watched, the brilliance faded. Joseph switched on a lamp.