Joan awoke from her nap with a start. She was momentarily flummoxed by the sound of flushing from the upstairs lavatory until she managed to collect her thoughts and remember the events of the day. Of course. Louisa was safely ensconced in the upstairs back bedroom.

Sighing to herself, she got up and went to the stove. She half-filled a small pan with milk and popped it on the top to heat up. Then, she carved off some slices from the fresh white loaf, and slid them under the grill. Absently heaping cocoa and sugar into two large mugs, she wondered if Louisa had managed to sleep. It was disappointing that they hadn't had a chance to collect any of her things before Lester had brought her to the farm. Joan was unhappy about the poor girl being put to bed in her school uniform but, at the time, there'd been no choice. Joan's clothes were no use. Louisa was a slender slip of a girl and she was of distinctly middle-aged proportions, but she wracked her brain to try and think of something suitable that the poor girl would be more comfortable in.

It dawned on her that answer was sitting, freshly washed and ironed, in paper bags, on the floor by the back door. Joan had begun, reluctantly, to clean out and dispose of Phil's clothes and, though most of his undergarments had gone as rags, there had been a couple of barely worn cotton vests and two new t-shirts that she'd earmarked for the charity shop.

She buttered the toast and put it on a small plate, poured out the steaming hot milk into the mugs, and put one on a tray next to the plate. Then she picked up the bag of clothes, tucked the Radio Times under one arm and, thus balanced, made her way upstairs to Louisa's little bedroom. A sliver of light showed under the door so Joan knocked gently and waited for a reply before letting herself in.

Louisa was sitting up in bed, propped up on a mound of pillows, her face pensive and pale. Her thin arms hugged her knees to her chest, and she looked up at Joan with tired eyes and a defeated expression. The light from the bedside lamp cast huge shadows across the room and everything, including Louisa, appeared solemn and forlorn.

"I bought you some supper." Joan said gently. "Everything seems worse on an empty stomach."

Louisa gave her a wan smile.

"Thanks." She replied softly. "I am a little bit hungry now actually."

"Good. Eat up then. No point asking you how you are but I've brought you something to read. Guaranteed to put you to sleep."

Joan placed the magazine and the bag of clothes next to Louisa on the bed

"And you might find something in here to sleep in. More comfortable probably. Anything else you need?"

"No thank you, Mrs Norton." The girl answered slowly. "Am I staying here for a bit or will I be able to go home tomorrow?"

Joan lent over and gave her arm a gentle squeeze.

"Nothing's decided upon yet, Louisa." She said quietly. "It's been a huge shock. To you most of all of course. Thought we'd sleep on it tonight and talk again in the morning. Then you can tell us what you'd like and we will see if we can work it all out. What do you think?"

Louisa replied with another of her sad smiles and a slight nod of her head.

Joan felt her heart fill with compassion and was herself in danger of springing tears.

"It will be alright, young lady." She said, setting her jaw firmly and summoning her best bulldog spirit. "Just wait and see. You know what this village is like when our backs are against the wall. We come out fighting. Everyone is on your side. It will all turn out just fine in the end, you'll see."

She stood up and looked down on Louisa's pale and slight figure.

"Now then." She said brightly. "Be a sensible girl. I've got a lot to organise and I don't need to be worrying about you fainting all over the place. Do as you're told and eat your supper."

Louisa waited until the door had closed before tipping the paper bag out on to the bed. With its large, cumbersome pleats that kept bunching up under her hip, her uniform had indeed been uncomfortable to try and sleep in. She was relieved to see a couple of new looking t shirts and she selected a big, soft, white one which looked plain but turned out to have a large St. Piran's flag across the back. She slipped off her tights, her badly creased gym slip, and her wrinkled blouse, vest and bra, and pulled the t shirt over her head. It was so large it came over halfway down to her knees but, like the bed linen, it smelt freshly laundered and reassuring. Clambering back under the covers, she reached over for a piece of toast and took a bite. Some melted butter ran down her pinky finger and she licked it off thoughtfully. Perhaps Joan was right. They were all fighters in Port Wenn and maybe it would all be ok. She was just too tired to think any more about it tonight. She flipped open the magazine and began to read.

As Joan sat down in the kitchen to drink her cocoa, she realised that she hadn't mentioned to Louisa that she was expecting another visitor this evening. Momentarily, she considered climbing the stairs once more to tell her but then thought it best not to disturb her again. She would make the introductions in the morning, by which time she hoped that everyone would be well rested and, Martin especially, more amenable to the predicament that bloody Terry Glasson had inflicted upon them.

Ten miles away, Martin eased his car off to the side of the road and flipped on the interior light. In the misty darkness, nothing seemed familiar. He felt inside his breast pocket and retrieved the directions he'd taken down during his last phone call with Joan. It was almost half past ten and he knew he couldn't have that much further to go. He read the note twice so it was committed to memory, extinguished the light and pulled back out on to the road. As it turned out, Joan's instructions were faultless and it wasn't too long before he found himself in the familiar potholed driveway of his beloved Haven House Farm.

There were still plenty of lights on in the house and it was a welcoming site after a particularly long and tiring evening's drive which had started in London's Friday evening traffic hell, many hours ago. Still, he'd been very pleased with the way his new car had handled; the seats were exceptionally comfortable and, most importantly, he'd had plenty of leg room. He climbed out, leaving the door open so that the interior light could illuminate his footing. One never knew what one was likely to step in on Auntie Joan's driveway. He grabbed his overnight bag and his raincoat from the back seat and made his way down the shingle path to the front door. The house looked exactly as he remembered it. Shabby and weathered but still so familiar and welcoming.

Just as he was about to knock, the door flew open. He heard his aunt give a small cry of delight before she leapt forward and grabbed him around his middle. He tried to return the hug but he still had his luggage in his hands, and he was now so much taller than she was that it was all he could do to try and bend forward and kiss her cheek.

After an awkward moment, she let go and stepped backwards to look at him. The first thing he realised was that he was now too tall to walk through the doorframes without ducking. That was an important detail to remember.

"Come in, come in." She said, gesturing him past her. "You must be exhausted! Cup of tea? Have you eaten?"

"Thanks, Auntie Joan." He said. " I'm not exhausted but I will have tea, white, no sugar. Thank you."

He looked around him. The room had barely changed at all, a thought he found strangely comforting. The furnishings, the huge old stove, the artwork, all exactly the same. He recalled how they'd warmed up orphan lambs in front of the stove, and how Uncle Phil had taught him how to stack it with firewood so that the fire never went out.

Every surface was covered in farmhouse clutter; nothing ever got thrown out, it was always reused or repurposed. He was sure that if he looked in the fridge, there would still be boxes of lamb vaccinations stacked up next to the day before's leftovers. Onions were scattered throughout the dresser, the fruit bowl was filled with odd socks, and a huge pot of something that smelt delicious was bubbling gently on the stove.

Joan watched him. He was gazing around him with the faintest of smiles on his face. My goodness he was tall now! He filled the room, and not just because of his height. His whole bearing had changed. Instead of the little boy who always seemed to want to make himself invisible, Martin stood up straight, exuding confidence. He was dressed immaculately in a well-tailored black pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, and perfectly knotted tie. She was stunned by the transformation and struggled to take her eyes off him.

There was still an element of the little boy about him. His golden blonde hair was still cut very short and stood up, spikily, at the front of his head, and his skin was still smooth and clear, though she did detect the faintest of five o'clock shadows around his jaw. She passed him the cup of tea and was surprised to see how large, smooth and well manicured his hands were. Men in Port Wenn did not have hands like that. Most of them no longer had all ten fingers. Even Jim Sim, the local GP, had slightly chipped nails and coarse, hairy fingers. She tried to remember her father's hands but struggled to recall much detail. She hadn't spent that much time with him really, she supposed.

And where did his size come from? Her brother was tall but he certainly wasn't broad like Martin. Joan hadn't attended Christopher's wedding and she hadn't met any of his awful wife's family but she could only surmise it came from that side. With Margaret's attitude to life, it wouldn't be a surprise if she came from a long line of pirates, stand-over men and All-In wrestlers, Joan thought bitterly.

They sat down at the table and smiled across at each other, exchanging pleasantries and trying not to stare too hard at each other. Joan had butterflies in her stomach; she often wished that Phil was still with her but never so much as now, with their beloved little Marty safely back under their roof once more.

Martin noticed how much more grey there was in Auntie Joan's hair these days. Like his father, she was very much salt and pepper, and they shared the same piercing, pale blue eyes. They probably looked more alike than they ever had, he decided, but he wasn't going to tell Auntie Joan that. She and Uncle Phil had been a tiny glimmer of hope in his miserable childhood. He felt really pleased to be back in Cornwall again with his Auntie Joan but there was a slight twinge of sorrow that he'd never see Uncle Phil again.

He desperately wanted to apologise for not attending Phil's funeral, but he couldn't find the words to explain. Would telling her how his parents had withheld the news of Phil's death from him merely open up old wounds?

As if she read his thoughts, Joan now asked after his parents. More out of politeness than interest really, she thought, though she did want to ascertain how they treated her nephew now he was an adult.

"Ummm, well, Dad and I aren't really speaking at the moment." Martin said without emotion. "He's upset with me because I refuse to join the navy. He thinks being a naval surgeon will be the making of me."

"And you don't agree?" Joan asked quizzically.

"I've had enough of institutions to last me a lifetime. It sounds hideous. Boarding School, but on a boat."

She snorted with laughter. "You stand your ground. Don't let him bully you."

He gave her one of his rare smiles. "He no longer wields any power. Doesn't stop him interfering though. I avoid him as much as I can. Which can be difficult when we work in the same building."

"Aah..." she replied, "And your mother?"

Martin sighed heavily. "She has a bee in her bonnet. I'm not sure why but it seems to be tied up in my inheritance from Grandfather, and her keenness for me to marry."

"Oh dear." Joan looked at him sharply. "Go on."

"Umm, I really...it's nothing. It's just. Ummm..." he looked at her and his eyes were the crinkled and worried eyes of an eleven year old boy again. "...Humiliating."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"Is there anyone special in your life?" Joan asked quietly. Strike while the iron is hot, she thought.

Martin looked at her thoughtfully. Could he tell her? Would she laugh at what a ridiculous situation he'd found himself in. He was weary. Could he let his guard slip a little around Auntie Joan? He decided he could trust her.

When he finally spoke, it was slowly and cautiously.

"She, aaah, she presented me with a list of girls she'd decided were suitable. I don't know any of them and have no interest in knowing any of them. Can you imagine her criteria?"

Joan rolled her eyes at the thought. God I detest that woman, she thought angrily.

Suddenly Martin gave a mirthless laugh.

"Top of the list were an apparent set of twins. Zinnia and Zylpha Somebody-bloody-hyphen-Somebody."

He looked at Joan with a look of utter incredulity on his face.

"Do you know, I'm still not sure if I'm supposed to marry either or both!?"

She couldn't help herself laughing. She reached over and placed her hand over his enormous one, and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

"So, Martin, what's the plan? Do I need to buy a new hat?"

He looked down at their hands and felt a comforting sensation of familiarity. He decided to tell her about the preposterous end to the cafe meeting with his mother, and the farcical situation with Edith. Auntie Joan might even know how he could extricate himself without a major loss of face.

"Ummm, well, you see, then there's Edith."

Auntie Joan cocked her head at him and raised one eyebrow.

"Edith?"

Martin took a deep breath, gathered his thoughts and was about to speak when he heard the creak of the stairs, followed by the kitchen door opening slowly. Simultaneously, he and Joan turned to look.

Standing in the doorway, Martin saw a confused looking teenage girl, pale and slender, dressed only in what appeared to be an oversized man's t-shirt, and clutching a plate, a cup and a magazine to her chest.

The girl stared at them both, clearly embarrassed at the intrusion. She bit hard on her lip and her face flushed pink.

"Sorry, I heard voices..." her voice, with its strong Cornish burr, trailed off as she looked from Joan to the man sitting at the table with her. She was surprised to see Mrs Norton was holding his hand. She had no idea who he was.

Martin, immediately however, felt a vague sense of recognition and scowled as he looked at her, gazing intently at the dark hair, parted down the middle and bobbed squarely along her jawline; the pale skin and the pretty face, dominated by huge, grey green eyes.

Noticing the scrutiny, she flashed a nervous smile. Instantly, her face was transformed and, suddenly, it hit him like a rocket.

"Wheezer!" He uttered incredulously, and scrambled to his feet.