Liz gazed at her sleeping daughter and thought that if she loved her one grain more, even just a tiny fraction, her heart might burst, exploding into a thousand pieces.

Rosie was lying on her side, her thick, silky fair hair streaming out behind her like a horse's tail. The duvet was pulled up under her chin so that only her perfect little head was exposed, and Liz noticed the light sprinkling of tan freckles on her daughter's nose, the damp, slightly parted lips, the faint snuffling noises, like a small animal, that accompanied her steady breathing.

Liz sighed, leaning over the bed and running the back of a cool hand against a soft cheek.

'Rosie?' she whispered.

No reply, not even a flicker.

'Rosie darling?'

She spoke louder this time. Rosie's lips moved and a stitch appeared on her pale forehead between the eyes. Liz wanted to smooth it away with her thumb and tiptoe out, closing the door gently behind her. But she mustn't.

'Time to get up,' she said, firmer now and steeling herself for the inevitable protests. There was no point drawing the curtains because it was still dark outside, but she did so anyway, hoping that the harsh sound of metal ring scraping on metal rail would perform the unpleasant task for her.

'Hurry up, sweetie,' she said, sounding far brighter than she felt. 'You need to get dressed.'

Rosie groaned, a hollow sound that seemed to come from deep in an underground cave.

'It can't be morning already. I only just went to sleep.'

At least she was conscious now.

'I'm afraid it is.'

Liz snapped on the desk lamp beside her daughter's bed, wincing in the brutal light that flooded the room.

'Don't!' Rosie grumbled, but her mother threw back the cover of the pink flowery duvet, avoiding glancing at the thin, shivering body against the white sheet. Every instinct told her to cover the little girl up again, to swaddle her like a baby, tucking in the edges tight.

'I'll get breakfast. We have to leave in twenty minutes.'

Across the narrow corridor, Liz could hear Rosie muttering to herself as she reached for her school uniform, which she'd carefully laid across the chair by her desk the night before.

The walls of the old fisherman's cottage were thick and Liz was unable to distinguish the words, but she could guess: 'I don't need to go to Jean's. I'm old enough to look after myself.'

She took a packet of cereal from the pine cupboard to the right of the sink and plonked it on the white melamine table in the corner of the kitchen, along with a bowl and spoon. She knew that Rosie wouldn't be hungry; who was at 5.30 a.m.? And besides, she always had a slice or two of toast at Jean's. But Liz didn't want her daughter to leave the house on an empty stomach; it didn't seem right.

The kettle had already boiled so she poured herself a mug of tea, noticing a chip in the blue and white cup that she could swear hadn't been there yesterday. She swapped hands so that the chip was on the other side and took a sip.

The warm liquid trickled pleasantly down her throat and for a second she closed her eyes, trying to think if there was anything that she'd forgotten.

What day was it? Thursday. Rosie had gym on Thursdays and Liz had already put her sports bag by the door, along with the rucksack containing her reading book, homework and packed lunch. She wouldn't remind her daughter about the PE lesson until the very last minute.

'Be quick,' she called, putting her mug down on the work surface, pouring a few spoonfuls of cereal into the bowl, fetching milk from the fridge and glancing at the round clock on the wall: 5.40 already. Her stomach clenched. 'I'm going to be late!'

'Don't worry, Mum, you won't be.'

Rosie appeared in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She was wearing white trainers that looked too big for her feet, grey trousers, a white blouse beneath her navy V-necked sweater, and a partially done up blue and grey striped tie. Liz felt a rush of gratitude; the tie was always an issue.

'It's so fiddly,' Rosie said apologetically, noticing her mother's look.

'I know,' Liz said, finishing the task and putting the tie straight. 'You've done a beautiful job. I'm just being fussy.'

Rosie smiled her funny, gappy smile and asked hopefully, 'Do I have to have breakfast?'

'You do.'

Liz pulled out the white plastic chair that wobbled, clocking the back of Rosie's head for the first time as she sat down. Her hair knotted easily and there was a tangle that she'd missed. 'I'll do your plaits.'

She took Rosie's good hand as they made their way down the dark, narrow street, their coats zipped up tight in the early morning air. It was April now and it was supposed to be a fine spring day later, warm and sunny, but you couldn't tell at this hour.

Rosie was doing her best to hurry but it wasn't easy.

'I wish I didn't have gym today,' she said in a small voice.

'I know.'

'It wouldn't be so bad if Kyle wasn't there.'

'Let's hope he's gone down with a really nasty bug,' Liz said, trying to make light of it.

'Mu-um!' said Rosie in her schoolmistressy voice. 'You mustn't say that.'

Liz smiled. 'Just a bit of a cold, then, enough to keep him off lessons. Is that allowed?'

Rosie laughed. 'OK, just a sniffle.'

Jean's home was at the bottom of Humble Hill before you turned right towards the harbour. Liz glanced at the names as she passed: Copper Cottage, Shell Cottage, Bag End, Dolly's Place. They all had identities, like real people.

Dynnargh was one of the very few modern buildings and Liz always thought it looked as if it had been tacked on to the row of terraced cottages like a broken chord.

Built of yellowish brick, it seemed quite out of place beside its pretty cream and white, colour-washed neighbours, but it was immaculately maintained, with white lace curtains in the windows, a neat fence round the edge and a front garden bursting with crocuses and daffodils lovingly planted by Jean's husband, Tom. For Rosie, who had been going there since she was three years old, it was a second home.

She was always arguing that, having just turned ten, she didn't need a childminder any more; she was old enough to get herself to school and she'd rather have a lie-in. Even so, Liz noticed gratefully that she half limped, half skipped up the front path to the door and rang the bell, which played the tune of 'Oranges and Lemons'. She loved Jean really; she was like an auntie, or another mum.

A round, smiley woman with sleep-drugged eyes, wearing a large yellow and blue floral quilted dressing gown answered.

'Mornin', chicken! Come on in!'

It was always the same greeting; it would be wrong to change it.

Rosie hopped across the threshold into Jean's arms, disappearing in the folds of her floor-length robe.

Liz checked her watch; she was cutting it fine as usual.

'See you at three twenty,' she said to Rosie, who quickly pulled away from the older woman and went up on tiptoe to plant a kiss on her mother's cheek.

'I forgot to tell you, Granddad phoned last night,' she said, stopping Liz in her tracks.

'Granddad?' She couldn't hide her surprise.

'He's going on holiday to Spain – with Tonya.'

Liz pulled a face; she couldn't help it.

'They're sailing from Plymouth. He says he wants to come and see us first.'

Liz raised her eyebrows. 'Great.'

'Come on in,...