North Cornwall had seen a peculiar, rather unpredictable summer. Grey mould had blighted the berry crops and, in the hedgerows, the blousy blooms of climbing roses hung in rotting clusters, nodding miserably in the stiff breeze like the guilty heads of condemned prisoners. By mid August, even the jolly swifts had absconded to warmer climes, no doubt beckoned by the warmer drier air of distant Africa. Tourists, too, had come and gone, complaining bitterly about the inclement weather, as if there was a damn thing that could be done to stop the torrential downpours from the storms rolling in from the west.

One ferocious deluge had seen the gutter detach entirely from the eastern eave of my cottage; a ruddy inconvenience since the funds from my tax return had already been allocated to another project entirely. Still, I'd managed to prop it back up with a sturdy length of timber I'd found behind the sheds, and my only option now was too ignore it, in the hope that not too much moisture would seep in beneath the roof. Meanwhile, long-faced holidaymakers dithered about the village, in their hastily-purchased, clear plastic ponchos, claiming all of the convenient car park spaces for themselves and loitering in every blasted doorway. For the permanent residents of Portwenn, even more emphatically than usual, the end of the visitor season could not come quickly enough.

As double-edged a sword as the transient crowds are, and as aggravating as their presence invariably is, their loss would not be sorely felt. Our community was quite capable of entertaining itself, and every week there seemed to be a different distraction to titillate the village. Fortunately, I was there on the morning that will surely go down in local history; an innocent bystander delivering the last few trays of pale, undersized strawberries I'd managed to salvage from my plot, a yield that would not even cover the cost of the fuel for my drive from the farm.

I'd stopped to exchange pleasantries with Jim Sim, enjoying the warmth of a rare sunny day. The tide was in and the air was calm as we'd stood in the street, discussing Baking Soda, and whether his recommendation had helped with my indigestion. Before I'd had a chance to reply, we were both rendered silent by shock, staring open-mouthed in horror as that dreadful, purple-faced old Tory, our resident baronet John Brading, drove his Range Rover through the front window of the pharmacy. Apparently, he'd hit the accelerator instead of the brake, resulting not only in a spectacular shower of broken glass but also a near catastrophe as he avoided flattening a customer, Gilbert Spencer, by the merest of margins.

Of course speculation was rife that it was no accident; as much of an old buffoon as he is, Sir John would have to be even more short-sighted than his thick glasses already suggest not to realise what was bubbling away under his bright red, roman nose. For my part, I had always tried to avoid the gossip on the particular subject of infidelity, trying my best to ignore the speculation and amusement that always seems to accompany such rumours, preferring inherently to keep my own silent counsel. Far be it from me to judge, I'd thought to myself, as I noticed his wife slink around the village, head down, determined to be concealed by shadows. There's nothing I detest more than a hypocrite and, when it comes to philandering wives being discovered by their dull, cuckolded husbands, there but for the grace of god, go I.

As it happened, Sally Tishell subsequently assaulting Sir John with a plastic, Hippo-shaped potty was just the beginning of a rather mad series of events. The putty was barely dry on the new pharmacy glass when anyone who could sign their own name was subjected to Bert Large's latest money-making scheme. We were all driven half daft by his persistent attempts to secure investors in his latest crooked cabal, an Ostrich Farm of all things, as barmy a plan as I've ever heard conceived. I was very fond of his wife but, since the poor woman shuffled off this mortal coil, Bert has barely managed to stay this side of Bodmin. Sometimes I do pity that poor child of his, the only example that boy will ever be set is how to skive and shirk and avoid an honest day's labour.

And, like a bad penny, of course it was Bert who was first on the scene when the next noteworthy incident occurred; a ketch, unnamed, unmarked and apparently abandoned, washing up on the rocks to the south of harbour, after a week of flat calm seas. Watching him row out beyond the breakwater, his progress painfully slow as he bobbed along unevenly in his barely seaworthy dinghy, immediately aroused the suspicions of every man and his dog. And, while we all knew his purpose must be nefarious, I must admit, his attempts to sell the drifting yacht to a visiting couple from Florida was quite entrepreneurial, and perhaps might even have been successful had the Coast Guard not arrived to tow it away at rather a critical moment in negotiations. Nevertheless, the sense of oddness was tangible; a strange, eerie portent that hung over the village like a sea fog in summer.

While most of these occasions had merely been entertaining, more recently and with far less joviality, we'd had to endure a more sinister series of events. For the farmers, it was the indescribable idiocy of the hay bale arsonist, for the village it was the disturbing realisation that there might be an underwear thief in their midst. There was nothing funny in the slightest about any of it, and it was jolly well made all the more disconcerting by the lack of a resident policeman in Portwenn. Moo, of course, had been furiously writing letters; to the local member, to all the national newspapers, and eventually even to Crimewatch, demanding an immediate investigation should get underway but, to her continued indignation, all her efforts had amounted to nothing.

I wasn't surprised however; perhaps it's my age that makes it feel as if the world is changing so rapidly. Everywhere one looks, businesses are closing, infrastructure is going to wrack and ruin, and even some of our railways are shutting down. The West Country feels as if it has been forgotten and farming for profit is definitely a thing of England's romantic past. Still, I'm better off than many, and I'm a firm believer in simply bucking up and getting on with things, trying not to dwell on problems I can't do anything about. Moo, however, likes her voice to be heard, loudly and clearly, and is, as always, energetic in her endeavours to highlight injustices that seem to knot her knickers. I suspect it reflects quite poorly on me that I was glad she was so thoroughly diverted, that she was rendered so indignant and incensed and so committed to fighting all those perceived wrongs, because it meant I had some respite from her other favourite subject: the endless exultation of her precious only son.

I do find her lack of impartiality quite amusing and I chuckle to myself as I drop the worn old screws into an old tobacco tin. Now, with autumn well upon us and the temperature plummeting in the draughty stone outbuildings, the sun is so low in the sky that my kitchen is again flooded with a cheerful light. The table provides a stable surface to work upon and the warmth on my back helps clarify my thoughts. Having cleaned the fuel filter once again, my aim is simply to get a few more hours out of my ailing tractor but I fear that every engine revolution sees it one step closer to an iron grave. Hydraulic fluid now seeps from perished lines, while the PTO is increasingly reluctant to engage. With my strawberry yield disastrous and barely a ewe producing twins, every day I sink ever more deeply into the red, with little hope of ever turning it around. Everything mechanical is wearing out in unison, and decades of deferring any building maintenance is a chicken that is now coming firmly home to roost.

Despite how much there always is to do, the trouble with living on ones own is that sometimes there is simply too much time to think, an, especially, to dwell. Farming is such a solitary pursuit, too, isolated and relying so heavily on a healthy dose of self-motivation, and rather an independent frame of mind. Decisions are made alone, often during those endless, lonely hours ploughing up and down the fields in a crawler gear, provided with far too much time for reflection than is possibly healthy. Like foot rot in ones flock, this persistent little morsel of discomfort can't be ignored for long. However fervently I've tried to push it to the back of my mind, though, I've been disappointingly unsuccessful. Lord knows how many times I've scolded myself for allowing these thoughts to fester but, as much as I know how utterly feeble I'm being, I do feel more than just a bit excluded.

Sighing, I move across to the clearer section of the table, accidentally sending the cardigan that was draped over the back of the chair, slipping silently to the floor. I have rewarded my morning's endeavours with a generous slice of cake and a mug of sweet tea but, even with today's crisp newspaper spread out before me, I've the devil's own job to concentrate on anything it says. The crossword would usually be cleaned up with ease as I enjoyed my elevenses, but I can't seem to care about the clues. Truth is, there's only room for one tricky conundrum in my head, and it's a puzzle intent on circling my mind like the water wheel on Hingham Mill, spinning furiously since yesterday, when I took an unexpected phone call and I was hit with the most extraordinary revelation, in the most perfunctory of ways.

Events two hundred miles away only reinforced the strangeness of the season, and how nature is as as unpredictable as a drunkard's walk. In the orchard the ancient pears bloomed for the second time yet, against the wall of the old stables, the raspberries had still not flowered at all. And, in the most cursory of declarations, my cool, dispassionate nephew called to inform me that, not only has he taken young Louisa Glasson as his lover, but he's even moved her in beneath his roof.

"Oh, I see. Finally decided to telephone, have we?" I'd grumbled, when I'd realised who it was, the censuring tone to my voice already quite unmistakeable.

Start as you mean to go on, I'd thought and, trust me, I had no intention of jolly well letting him off the hook. Marty had been like a son to me, I'd devoted months of my life to his care, and so his reluctance to communicate with me willingly felt like a bloody enormous snub. I'm aware that I haven't been a consistent part of his life for a long time but that's not my fault. I wanted to be, very badly, but it seems to me that for twenty years it's all been rather too one-sided, and I can't help but feel a little churlish at the way I've apparently been cast aside.

"Yes." He'd replied carefully and, instantly I recognised that familiar remoteness, the reluctance to really talk to me, in that sweetly earnest way he'd done when he was a little boy, shadowing us around the farm like a quietly curious little piskie.

"Obviously, things have been challenging….and, the truth is…I've been exceedingly busy." He had added pointedly, and there was a curtness in his manner that had felt like a reprimanding slap to the back of the legs from Nanny.

"Hmph. Is that what they're calling it these days?" I growled back at him, determined to make my point.

He'd responded with a deathly, loaded silence but somewhere, down the phone line, I'd been aware of a shuddering sigh. Whether it meant impatience or resignation, I couldn't care less; I'd changed his nappies more times than I cared to remember and I felt that I deserved more than the measly crumbs of communication he seemed prepared to offer me. I had loved him like my own child, Phil and I would have taken him in and raised him as our own in a heartbeat, if we had been given the opportunity. I'd even prayed for Christopher to change his mind, gone in to that freezing church and got down on my blasted knees, and where had it got me? A widow by fifty, and nothing but debt and dilapidation to show for it. All I could apparently hope for from what was left of my family was the occasional catch up with Ruth, and to feel vaguely included in Marty's life, though it often seemed as if the wretched boy couldn't even do that for me.

"I see. I take it that you're still angry about Louisa?" He'd replied briskly. "If that's the case, then we have nothing to discuss."

His tone was unlike anything I'd heard from him before, no hint of polite deference to a favourite aunt, no bluster, no hesitancy, nothing I'd usually experienced in our increasingly rare, stilted and unenlightening conversations. His was now a voice of indisputable authority; cold, clear and absolute. And then it struck me, in it's unwavering disapproval, his voice was now that of my father's.

"I'm not angry about Louisa, Marty!" I'd cried indignantly, in my own defence. "I'm very very fond of her, always have been…you of all people should know that. You were here when I took her into my home."

"Right." He'd growled. "Then perhaps you might enlighten me as to what exactly it is that you object to? Because it's abundantly clear that you do object, just as it seems clear that you deliberately brought us together. In fact, if I remember correctly, you actively encouraged my interest in her. Why would you do that, Aunty Joan, why would you do that, to only now determine it such an appalling idea?"

For a moment, I had winced; not only at his unfamiliar forcefulness, but with a slightly guilty acknowledgement that his question was indeed fair. I hadn't come down in the last shower, and of course I had noticed how much attention he had paid Louisa when they'd met again at my birthday lunch. Perhaps he is right, and I do have no one to blame but myself, perhaps I did push them together, albeit unwittingly. Observing them at lunch together had simply, and rather stupidly in hindsight, amused me. To watch that great big, arrogant lump of a boy, with his smart suit and his cool, haughty manners, almost completely lose his poise had been brilliant entertainment, especially when the cause of his discomposure was a spirited, puckish, slip of a thing like Louisa. I'd barely been able contain myself, laughing incredulously to myself until I'd had the chance to blurt it all out to Ruth days later.

"Yes, Marty, alright, you do have a point." I'd conceded reluctantly. "It's just that I was surprised that's all, very surprised I suppose, that you'd had the gumption to follow up on the attraction, if you must know. Hearing that the two of you were in some sort of relationship was rather a shock, I will admit. I mean, I've known you both since you were babies and I never would have imagined the two of you together in a million years…"

"You are, of course, entitled to your opinion." He'd said icily and I'd felt a surge of something that felt like panic. I was trying to placate him yet it appeared I was making things worse.

"Marty, wait…afterwards, you see, when I thought about it, I realised, that's just what young people do these days, don't they? Things are so much more casual than in my day, especially in the city…knocking around together doesn't have the same implications as it used to…sex before marriage doesn't have to mean anything, does it? It doesn't always force your hand…"

Shaking my head now as I recall my clumsy little speech, I lick the end of my index finger, absently dabbing at the crumbs I have spread across the flattened pages of the entertainment section. Waste not want not, I always say, especially when it comes to Helen Pratt's chocolate sponge. As light and delicious as it was though, it does nothing to help the tight discomfort in my chest and the burning in my belly. Not even a couple of Rennies and a glass of fresh milk seem to offer any relief these days and I sigh with renewed despondency.

Even up to an hour ago, before he phoned me, I thought I had rationalised their relationship quite successfully in my mind. For a healthy young man like Marty, the physical attraction he'd have for Louisa would be entirely natural; she'd grown into a beautiful young woman and, to be honest, I was secretly delighted he had it in him, because we'd all had our concerns about the solitary lifestyle he seemed intent on living. I laid the blame squarely at the feet of his parents of course; he'd once confided in me that he feared they were intent on arranging a marriage for him, and it was entirely within his character to stubbornly insist on remaining on his own rather than concede an inch to them over anything. But a bull kept alone in isolated field eventually becomes dangerous, and an entire male dog chained to his kennel always goes a little mad. And men are no different, I'd decided long ago, they need a woman to put the colour in their cheeks.

For free-spirited, optimistic Louisa though, I'm not sure exactly what to think because, to be honest, as much as I love him, Marty's appeal for her seems rather less obvious. She always was a sensitive child; gutsy but kind-hearted, and I do wonder if she, like most girls her age, sees my nephew as a man in need of fixing. Or is it as simple as, for an abandoned child from a Cornish village, who grew up in virtual poverty, the novelty and trappings of my nephew's financial security might be inducement enough? Danny Steele seemed to lure her quite successfully, and he was never short of a bob or two, thanks to his overindulgent mother. No one could blame the girl, if they knew where she'd come from, but somehow it's a pretext that doesn't quite fit the Louisa I knew.

I return to the conversation I'd had with Marty, the words playing over and over again in my head. It had taken him a moment or so to respond to my awkward little reassurances and when he'd spoken, finally, it was if he chose his words with the utmost care, and enunciated them in such a way that his message was crystal clear.

"Auntie Joan, since it does appear imperative to you to have an insight into my private life, I should let you know that Louisa is now residing with me. In my flat."

"What? You've moved in together?" I'd blurted out, quite unintentionally, the shock rendering all my filters defunct.

"Yes." He'd stated, as if he were taking an oath.

Of course I should have known that something as utterly unexpected as this is would fill me with a disproportionate degree of alarm. I'd convinced myself, you see, I'd absolutely convinced myself that cheerful, excitement-loving Louisa would soon be worn down by Marty's mirthless view of life. That they would soon go their separate ways, each to simply chalk the other up to experience, seemed to be the only eventuality I could foresee. But I was quite obviously wrong and the initial surprise I'd felt at hearing that she was spending the night at his flat is nothing compared to the ripples of shock I experience at this latest revelation. And now, as I sit here ruminating on his every word, all I can see are obstacles in their path; difficulties, quagmires and encumbrances. As fond of them both as I am, I'm very concerned by how opposite their personalities are, differences that could surely never allow them to ever a make a go of things. All they appear to have in common is their stubbornness, and their determination to never be told what to do.

"I see. And may I ask whose idea that was?" I ask bluntly.

"Does that matter?"

"So it was Louisa's?" I'd replied, confident that I might be getting to the bottom of this relationship more quickly than even I had hoped.

"No, actually, we both agreed that it was a prudent next step." He'd corrected me tersely. "Not that it's anyone else's business, but it was my suggestion that she move in. I asked her, so make of that what you will…"

"I see…"

"And trust me, I've heard everyone's opinion, I've suffered every sort of joke and innuendo. Rest assured, the unlikeliness of this whole scenario has been pointed out to me innumerable times and the upshot is, with respect Auntie Joan, I don't think I can stomach much more disparagement…." He'd said grimly before trailing off, almost in despair. "Especially not from you…"

Listening to him, I was suddenly somewhat disappointed in myself. I was reminded that I'd always loved this boy more as my own son than the offspring of my appalling brother. I always have, right from the moment I gathered him up into my arms, and he'd gazed at me so calmly, kicking his chubby little legs and sucking on his fingers with apparent gusto, great threads of frothy drool encasing his tiny fists, I'd been besotted with him. He was a picture of innocence, his eyes so bright and blue, his mouth that of a cherub and, when I smiled at him, his face lit up in such a way that I never wanted to give him back.

That something so precious could be the product of such horrible parents had seemed nothing short of a miracle to me. His mother was nowhere to be seen of course, collapsed somewhere on a daybed no doubt, while Christopher, as arrogant as ever, strutted around like a peacock, soaking up the congratulations as if he was the first man to ever father a son. As was always the case, he'd irritated the dickens out of me but, as I rocked that baby to sleep in my arms, I knew that I would cheerfully put up with his fat-headed nonsense forever if it meant I could claim my share of time with baby Martin.

"Look at those dimples." I'd said to Phil, who'd held out grease-stained finger only to have Martin seize it with a grip of iron.

I'd smiled at him reassuringly. Things were always uncomfortable when I returned to London. On the rare occasions that Phil accompanied me, things became almost unbearably tense. My parents never approved of my choice of husband and my mother, especially, ignored him until the day she died. Her bitterness ran so deep that the woman even stated in her will that he was not to be a pall-bearer. It was the final insult for him really, the beginning of the end and, subsequently, I'd caught the train up to London for her funeral on my own.

But, at the time of Martin's christening, on a perfect spring day, as Christopher opened champagne again and handed out more cigars, Phil and I has still been bound together so tightly; defiant and determined, and still convinced that love would conquer all. But, as I watched him coo and smile at the baby, for the first time in a long while I'd felt a stab of sharp resentment; a bitterness I suppose at the ease with which everything seemed to come to my brother, the way he always bloody well got what he wanted. And now he had a child too, a beautiful first born son; a happy, even-tempered baby boy that lay peacefully in my arms, swaddled in the profusion of his antique gown, until he fell asleep, whereas I'd been jolly well married for several years by then and, still, Phil and I had nothing whatsoever to show for it.

Ruth had arrived fashionably late, having missed the service, breathlessly demanding a glass of champagne and tossing her beret dramatically onto an unoccupied armchair. She'd always been a clotheshorse, but that day she seemed even more slim and elegant than ever and, once again, I'd been envious of her effortlessly stylish appearance, her shiny dark hair so fashionably bobbed. By comparison, I'd felt like a dusty, worn out old cart horse stabled next to a gleaming St. Leger winner. I hadn't had time to buy anything new and, as funds were invariably tight, I'd made do. It didn't seem like I had been away from London all that long but I'd forgotten how it was in the city; as soon as we stepped off the train I'd been reminded and I'd spent the weekend feeling self conscious, like a miserable monument to fatness and frumpiness.

Ever my older, wiser sister, I'd always adored Ruth. Pretty and clever, with an acerbic wit and the makings of an impressive career, she'd always been my father's favourite too. With my mother so obsessed with Christopher, and kept busy smoothing his way in the world, I'd always felt rather ignored. Of course I hadn't let it worry me, I just got on with things, as you do, supposing that's just what happens when you have three children and only two parents, someone inevitably misses out. I'd had the last laugh though I'd thought at the time, I'd been the one that made them all sit up and notice me alright, running off with Phil and marrying him in a registry office, total strangers our only witnesses. Nothing like a black sheep and an ill-advised liaison to garner the attention of cold, disinterested parents, I'll tell you that for nothing.

"I see the child has Margaret's ears." Ruth had observed caustically, peering over my shoulder, feigning disinterest. "Before her surgery, that is…"

I'd stifled a bark of laughter, recalling my sister-in-law at school; her facial features and unscrupulous behaviour far less refined than they had been by the time she finally managed to ensnare my dreadful brother. When Christopher had announced their engagement, I'd been too self-absorbed, too immature to really understand the implications of their liaison, and I'd simply thought it hilarious and somehow poetic; the bullying brother I detested betrothed to the nastiest piece of work I'd ever met. But kismet, and karma and cruel tricks of fate are only amusing when there is no risk of collateral damage, no innocent bystanders to get caught in the mire. After they'd immersed him in the font, Martin had cried, his shrieking becoming more heart-rendering the more his mother attempted to placate him. Horrified by her ineptness, the baby's screaming more distressing than anything I'd ever heard before, I'd rushed forward instinctively, amazed in hindsight that she hadn't seemed to care at all as I'd snatched her saturated infant son from her stiff, cold arms.

the ridiculous thing was, as a baby, I'd always found him so easily placated, and I'd been happy just to cuddle him til he calmed down, watching him pull endearing little faces and grimace at me with his gummy, toothless, windy smile. I'd glanced around the room, concerned I might be monopolising him, only to realise that no one else was paying either of us the slightest attention. Even Phil had stepped outside for a smoke and, from that moment on, I'd felt a powerful sense of duty, an obligation to take care of this vulnerable little creature, especially as I observed his parents, distressingly aware of what both of them were capable of.

Recalling the contented little noises he used to make, I'm not sure I can entirely get used to the idea of that sweet little boy as a life-saving surgeon but, if Ruth's connections are as good as she says they are, then apparently he has my father's golden touch, a gift that clearly skipped a generation. Despite everything, I still feel that sense of responsibility to Martin, but not at the risk of us really falling out. Besides, I do know what it's like to have everyone criticise your choice of partner and it was even worse for Phil and I because we really thought we were in love. I also know better than anyone though that criticism only makes you resent the appraiser, it will never change your mind when your mentality is that of a fortress.

"I don't mean to be disparaging." I'd conceded, reluctantly. "I just want you to be happy, Marty, really I do."

"Yes." He muttered uncomfortably. "I'm fine."

"And work? Going well by all accounts?" I'd persisted.

"Yes…though, umm, I should probably tell you that tomorrow is my last day at St. Mary's. I've…I've accepted a post at Imperial College…"

"Really?" I'd exclaimed. "Good grief! What does your father think about that?"

"I have no idea."

"So you're not in touch?"

"No." He'd replied with the sort of finality that made me rage inside at the stupidity of my own brother.

"I see. So I presume that means you won't be down for your birthday this year either?"

"No."

"Hmph, well, I'd be lying if I said I was surprised…" I'd responded, with just enough churlishness that he'd understand my disappointment. "Perhaps next year, when you're more settled?"

I'd been met with utter silence; not even a non-committal grunt or a disparaging groan, just the sound of nothingness, and my hopes for a reunion of sorts evaporating into the ether. If he didn't want to come to Cornwall, there wasn't much I could do to change his mind but, as I wracked my brain for something to say, the genesis of yet another awkward conversation topic began to make itself known.

"And Louisa, has she heard from her father?" I asked him, casually.

The silence now became palpably uncomfortable and, echoing down the phone line, I heard him inhale; a deep, shuddering sound that smacked of caution and resignation.

"What do you mean?" He'd asked warily and it was only then that it dawned on me; perhaps Louisa didn't know.

"Oh dear." I replied hesitantly. "Well, I hope I'm not speaking out of turn, Martin, but there are rumours….you know what it's like. Good news travels fast in a village like this, bad news even faster..."

"Auntie Joan, if you could just get to the point?" He'd snapped impatiently

"Yes, well, the thing is, Mike Chubb's brother-in-law is a detective or something in Truro and the word is…Terry Glasson is out on parole at the end of the month…"

"Right." He'd said, his voice suddenly low and thoughtful. "I see."

"I just wondered if he'd been in touch, that's all…"

"Umm, no. I mean…I don't know…" He'd replied, trailing off distractedly.

"I was trying earlier to work out how long he'd been inside. It must be eight years." I'd said after a moment, keen to break the silence that had descended so claustrophobically upon us.

"Umm, yes, I suppose it must be…"

"Surely Louisa would have mentioned it to you though? If she'd heard from him?" I'd said, unable to stop myself from probing, however unwelcome I knew my enquiry would be. "It seems rather an important piece of information to keep to herself."

"She might say something, probably…possibly. I don't know." He'd replied carelessly, and somewhat impatiently, and there was something about his tone had irritated me.

"For goodness sake Marty, you do care for this girl, don't you?" I'd snapped at him, my frustration at his heavy, smothering obtuseness revealing itself rather too clearly. "I think I know Louisa well enough to understand that this is going to be a very emotional situation for her. And if you haven't worked it out for yourself, then let me spell it out for you…she's going to very much need your support!"

"What?" He'd demanded curtly, apparently even more utterly and depressingly clueless than I'd imagined.

"Marty, there's more to installing the poor girl in your flat than the benefit that seems most apparent to you…" I'd hissed him in disbelief. "There are responsibilities too…"

"Auntie Joan I really must go." He'd interrupted briskly. "Lots of loose ends to tie up…last day tomorrow and all that.."

"Marty!" I'd cried out, my tone equal parts threat and fear, the same voice I'd used on him when he was boy and I'd discovered him apparently intent on electrifying the thin wire cables I used as a washing line, in an attempt to improve the reception on his radio. "You need to think about what Louisa needs…"

"I…err..I have a meeting with the Dean shortly, and then…ahh…a function to attend…so, I'll..umm…I'll be in touch…"

"Yes, well, I must get on too." I'd snapped at him, exasperated at his habitual refusal to ever acknowledge the importance of feelings, never mind discuss them with me. "The blasted fuel lines in the tractor need bleeding again. I was just about to go and do that when you interrupted me."

"Right, well I won't hold you up. Goodbye Auntie Joan."

I heard the ominous click of the receiver; decisive and conclusive, a definitive end to a conversation that had left me possibly even more concerned and perplexed than I had been before. I don't why I hoped he might open up to me, why I'd hoped for some sort of miraculous transformation in him because, even when he was a boy, and I'd tried to get to the bottom of things with him, attempting to understand the bed wetting especially, he was utterly inscrutable. Even though he was so young and timid, in the face of adult enquiry he'd remained resolutely silent, and thoroughly unresponsive too, no matter how gently I'd attempted to broach the subject with him.

What feels worse is that I am none the wiser as to his actual thoughts about Louisa, and even less sure now about her feelings in return. Nothing he said filled me with any sort of confidence and I can't shake off an ominous sense of imprudence, a realisation that this liaison is simply incongruity on an epic scale. And I just can't make sense of what a bubbly, cheerful, heart-on-her-sleeve sort of girl like Louisa might see in my cold, taciturn, uncommunicative nephew. Even when you imagine yourself in love, trying to make a relationship work when a couple has such a huge difference in upbringings is an enormous challenge, a sad fact I know only too well. At some point the dissimilarity that first brought you together becomes the polarisation that tears you apart.

There's nothing like the sickening realisation that you have made a terrible mistake to fire up the furnace of regret, nothing like knowing that your bed is made, and you must spend your days spread out across it's damp, dull, lumpiness, to bring an miserable emptiness to your soul. Don't get me wrong, I was still very fond of Phil, good man that he was; practical, loyal and kind. There was enough respect left that I could find it in my heart to nurse him, and be devastated when his fight had reached the end. But if I had ever been truly in love with him, the realities of our life together had surely dowsed those early flames. A farm too small to ever be profitable but too large that we could ever relax, exacerbated at his resentment at being the youngest of his family and watching his brother reap the rewards of a thousand fertile acres in a picturesque, sheltered valley, a hundred miles away.

But before I'd told him I loved him for the last time, convincing myself that lying to a dying man could always be justified, before I'd hocked most of my mother's jewellery to keep the farm afloat, even before Johnes disease had forced us to cull all our remaining cattle, there'd been someone else. An itinerant yachtsman, footloose and unfettered, he and Phil had met in the pub and I'd come downstairs to protest the noise and the lateness of the hour only to find them cheerfully ensconced at the kitchen table. He'd introduced himself as John, and charmed me into joining them; we'd drunk his whisky long into the night, and laughed like I hadn't done in years.

It was the little things that I noticed initially. When I spoke he'd listened to me intently; with his lopsided face, heavy brows and sad eyes he certainly wasn't classically handsome in any sense, but he was tall and athletic and as sharp as a tack. And so full of life, his positivity was contagious, his thoughts always in eager anticipation of what was around the next headland or beyond the broad horizon. I'm not even ashamed to admit that within days we were lovers, lying in the narrow berth of his yacht, the sound of the waves slapping against the hull the perfect antidote to the disillusion I'd been feeling with my life. Though every day I waited for him to say that it was time he moved on, weeks turned into months and still he remained on shore. And the lies became more complicated and the feelings more intense and, every morning as Phil clambered into his tractor, his thermos and his transistor radio at his side, I'd felt less and less remorse, just a delirious feeling of excitement, like I was actually alive again.

But, of course, it was Christopher who had the last word, accusing me of gross moral turpitude and threatening me with the loss of everything, a sacrifice I just couldn't find it in myself to make. I sent John away and I renewed my efforts to make my marriage work but, by that stage, Martin was lost to me and so, as I came to realise, was all hope. Phil and I co-existed happily enough, we muddled along, but there was always that underlying bitterness, endured but never expressed. Our inability to have a family and the mean-spirited way our little make-do one was cleft apart, the debts we never surmounted, the rancour we couldn't defeat and, just when we'd seemed to be settling in to a peaceable sort of existence, his illness had crushed what was left of his spirit.

If I'd known what was to come, would I have spent all those months in secret trysts as soon as Phil's back was turned? Was it fair to have deceived him so completely, for so long and then return to my matrimonial bed as if nothing had happened? Or, conversely, should I have thrown in my lot as a farmers wife, subsistent and regretful, and embarked on the sort of Girl's Own Adventures I'd always craved, the freedom I'd always so longed for, by following my new lover to sea. In the end, my hand forced, I'd rejected his offer, resisted his pleas and chosen to stay in the cottage, resigning myself to the usual evening's entertainment, turning up the volume on the black and white telly to drown out Phil's snoring, while I darned socks, and knitted with brightly coloured oddments of yarn, making baby clothes for the Lifeboat fund and the leg warmers for the C.W.A.

I heard later that John sailed out to Hong Kong, where he made his fortune, and I think about him seriously for the first time in quite a while. Cursing beneath my breath in tight-lipped frustration, I wonder if there's a patron Saint of Diesel engines to whom I might appeal. I can't see the heads of the screws without my glasses on now and the strength in my wrists seems to be diminishing as I try with all my might to make them tight. Middle age has not done me any favours and if John could see me now, he might be surprised. I set a course for my life when I eloped with a Cornish farmer, charmed by the fact he was the antithesis of everything I'd come to know. As much as the attraction was fuelled, in part anyway, by my parents furious disapproval, I would never ever concede that they were right. And there's a discomfort that seems to be building inside me, an ominous snowballing fear that both Martin and Louisa might be about to make the same calamitous mistake.