Eighteen
Right across the landscape of Cerrigydrudion, regular daylight rolled away into the timely embrace of winter, from branch to bough. The fading routines of summer were drawn over in a veil of November that left even their lawnmower gathered, lonely, beneath a rough sheet of tarpaulin.
Vivian had come downstairs the morning after the boys had stolen the barrels and emptied much of their contents across the kitchen floor.
‘Company comes at some cost, boys,’ she had told them in no uncertain terms. ‘Happily for you both, you’ll find that mops aren’t very expensive.’
Buying a mop was just the start of things, however. In the days that followed, there were tins of paint, sandpaper, undercoating, and a heated debate about the choice of colour for the hallway. Herbert gave up the mast
