When the hawthorn sings

Georgie lived to dance – and now her dream job was within her grasp

PAPA! Papa, come on!” Small fingers pull at Will’s hand. He looks down at his four-year-old daughter. She is heading towards the cottage, intent on getting home to her mother. “Go ahead, Mercy,” Will

IT had been a long, hard drive. Frances had left early, hoping to get away before the rush hour – only to discover that the rush hour started earlier still. She stopped for a break further south than

GRAN, you know I love the hotel. But I’m not the person you need,” Emma said. “You publicise those events you run,” her gran, Betty, replied. “I’m sure you could use some of those skills to help build

THE last specks of rain of the previous night’s storm pattered against the widow of the drawing-room. Meryl Stewart sat at the keyboard of her baby grand, working her way through the piano arrangement

THE clamour of seagulls woke Frances. For a moment, she was disorientated. Not so much in place – she knew this bedroom well – as in time. She had the odd feeling that none of the last 30-odd years ha