Teepee for Two. Daisy Tate

wished she could’ve given her a few bolts of fabric to play around with. She smiled, remembering the endless trips her mum had made to the charity shops for old wool coats, satin dresses, cotton prints. Then on to the woollen mill, where they’d picked up reams of odd-shaped ends going for next to nothing. Their booty was the inspiration behind Freya’s first-ever pair of homemade throw pillows. She’d given a set to Charlotte for her wedding. Butterflies, if she remembered correctly.

      ‘Dad?’ Whether or not he wanted a cup of tea usually didn’t take this much consideration. Then again, normally she didn’t ask him. She just made one and he would scoop up the mug in one of his big old capable hands and give her a wink of thanks. This – the asking – was part of a series of cognitive tests she was trying to slip into their day-to-day chat as suggested by her own GP.

      ‘Aye,’ Freya’s father said. Then, ‘No.’

      Crumbs. This was exactly the sort of thing Rocco had mentioned. Uncertainty in a man who never dithered. He was a doer. A farmer, first and foremost, but in whatever capacity, he was someone who always knew what to do. Rock solid. Vital. Even at the ripe old age of seventy-three which, suddenly, didn’t seem that old. A shiver shunted down Freya’s spine. This couldn’t be the beginning of the end. Even though it had been almost a year, it felt as if they’d only just lost her mum. She wasn’t up to losing her father, too.

      She tried again, with a brighter smile this time. One she might have used for the children when they were toddlers.

      ‘I’m making one for Rocco and me.’

      ‘Sit down, love. Freya’ll do it. She’s probably got the kettle on already.’

      Bollocks.