seven
Phillipa Ryan lived a forty minute drive away in a pretty traditional stone cottage with acres of land and an enviable hilltop view which overlooked rolling patchwork fields. To get to the cottage, Annabel had to manoeuvre her car up a track that resembled a muddy bog, after days of solid rain had fallen on the Cornish countryside.
‘You’ll have to give me a push, Mum,’ Annabel said crossly, as the wheels of her tiny car sank into the mulch and refused to budge.
‘In these?’ Elizabeth pointed at her suede ballet pumps.
‘Yes, Mum, we’re stuck. Listen.’ She pressed on the accelerator and an awful grating sound emanated from the underside of the vehicle.
‘Okay.’ Elizabeth unclipped her belt and stepped gingerly out of the car. ‘This is gross,’ she muttered, as mud covered her feet up
