I turned away and stretched, reaching my toes down to the cold bit at the bottom of the bed where the blankets had become untucked. Blankets? Of course! I was at Appleby Farm. I blinked rapidly, shot up to a sitting position and bumped my head on the sloping ceiling in the process. I rubbed my skull, wincing from the pain, my heart knocking against my ribcage as the dramas of yesterday came flooding back. The phone call from Auntie Sue, the row with Charlie, the endless journey up the motorway and then the grim reality of the cardiac unit at the hospital, where Uncle Arthur lay, anxious and dwarfed amidst the monitors, wires and machinery. It was the stuff of nightmares, but at least Uncle Arthur appeared to be out of immediate danger. Now I was here, I was going to do my utmost to see that it didn’t happen again. My eyes gradually focused on my surroundings and for a few seconds I let the comfort and joy of being back at the farm work its magic. My bedroom was on the top floor of the farmhouse, tucked under the eaves – hence the thud to the head.
