Ruth could still feel her gran’s presence lingering in this place . . .
BY TERESA ASHBY
RUTH drove into the village, welcomed by masses of golden daffodils lit up by the sun, their heads bobbing in the breeze.
This was without doubt her favourite time of year, with the promise of summer ahead and the harshest weather of winter behind.
Or it used to be.
As much as she loved coming here, this wasn’t under the happiest of circumstances, and she knew that spring and daffodils would remind her of all she’d lost.
She made her way up the winding hill to Sunny Cottage and parked outside.
It looked different.
The house seemed sad somehow without Gran’s presence, almost as if the upstairs windows were eyes beneath the frowning brow of the thatch.
Last time she came, the front door had flown open as Gran had run out to greet her.
She smelled of lavender and scones, and her hugs were always warmer and softer than anyone else’s.
Ruth choked back tears and got out of the car, almost falling over when the door opened before she could use her key.
She put her hand on her chest as a man in a suit stepped out, checking out the door frame on his way.
“Who are you?” they asked in unison.
“Are you here to look at the house, too?” he added. “What do you mean?” “It’s for sale. The agent gave me a key to look round.”
“I’m sorry,” Ruth replied. “He had no right to do that.”
He looked down at her with a puzzled smile. He seemed nice, but he didn’t belong here.
“He wouldn’t under normal circumstances, but the agent is my cousin and I’m a police detective.”
He showed her his warrant card.
“That doesn’t mean you should be allowed to tramp round other people’s homes,” she insisted.
His brow creased.
“I thought the owner had passed away.”
“Yes,” Ruth replied, “and her funeral is on Tuesday. It’s really not at all right that people are already looking round Gran’s home.”
“Your grandmother? I’m so sorry,” the men said. “I had no idea. I assumed it had been empty for a while.”
Ruth pushed past him and stepped inside.
This wasn’t how she’d imagined coming here would be.
“It’s not your fault,” she acknowledged, feeling calmer. “You weren’t to know.
“I’ll be staying here until after the funeral, so if you would give me the key and I’ll call the agent and tell him not to send anyone else round.
