1. A Vacation in Wales A Vacation in Wales
PORTIA

The town of Conwy nestled against the coast like a blob of jam inside the curve of a croissant. The houses of the old section stood on a hillside, overlooking the blue bay. Its narrow alleyways lay in the shadow of a castle with the Welsh flag fluttering from its turrets: a red dragon on a green-and-white base.

At the foot of the castle, a short distance from the ramparts, was the train station. It had two sets of tracks, and a platform so narrow that two adults were barely able to walk down it side by side. Behind the station was a parking lot, which was as empty as the station itself—except for a brown seagull rooting through the rubbish bins in the hope of finding some lunch.

Portia Beale stood at the entrance to the parking lot, occasionally glancing down at the note in her hand. Her mother had written down her aunts’ address and phone number on a piece of paper. “Just in case,” she had said. “They’ll come and pick you up, so you won’t need the number; at least not for now.”

Well, Mum, you thought wrong.

She pulled her phone from her pocket, trying to ignore the lump in her throat. No reason to panic. She had taken the train from London to Wales all by herself, so why would she be scared of making a simple phone call? After all, her mother had warned her that the aunts were a tad scatterbrained—perhaps they had simply forgotten that their guest was arriving today.

Portia had already typed in the first three digits when a Nissan car came barreling noisily into the parking lot, brakes screeching and exhaust popping, and halted in front of her. The door flew open, and a stocky woman with a short gray braid heaved herself out. Portia’s thumb was still hovering over the screen when the woman came stomping toward her, in clumpy green rain boots.

“Damn and blast it!” she said by way of a greeting. “I really thought I was going to make it in time.”

That was Portia’s first impression of Aunt Bramble.

Initially Portia and her mother had been planning to spend their summer vacation in Andalusia—but a week before their scheduled departure, her mum had canceled the trip. Portia had been disappointed, but not particularly surprised. Her mother had been feeling unwell all month. Signs that the vacation wouldn’t happen had gathered like storm clouds on the horizon.

Gwendolyn Beale had broken the news to her daughter three days ago. Andalusia was off. Instead, she said, Portia would be spending a fortnight with some relatives in north Wales. Rose was Gwendolyn’s aunt, and Bramble was Rose’s partner. They lived in a cottage in the countryside, but had been traveling on and off for years, so Portia hadn’t seen them since she was very little. Still, they were really looking forward to her visit. At least that’s what Portia’s mum had said. Now that Bramble was right in front of her, as large as life, Portia wasn’t so sure.

“Where on earth is my blasted watch?” said Bramble in a voice as thorny as her namesake, rummaging through her trouser and coat pockets.

Portia had no idea how to greet the older woman, so in the end she simply stuck out a hand. “Hello, I’m Portia.”

She felt foolish as soon as the words left her mouth, but Bramble paused for the first time since she had jumped out of the car. She looked Portia up and down with a smile on her face, before taking her hand in a firm grip. “I know who you are, girl. Even though I’ve got to say, you’ve grown an awful lot since I last saw you.”

She produced a battered wristwatch from the depths of a pocket. “Shall we?”

Without waiting for a response, Bramble grabbed Portia’s bag and headed back toward her dented gray Nissan. Portia followed, adjusting the straps on her backpack.

“That train’s always, always late,” Bramble grumbled. “And then today of all days it’s on time. Have you been waiting long?”

“No, not really,” said Portia, but Bramble didn’t seem to be listening anyway. She opened the trunk, swore again, and pushed aside a big bag of bark mulch to make space for Portia’s suitcase.

“Go ahead and get in! Rose is waiting with the tea, and if I don’t deliver you on time, she’ll do her eyebrow thingy.”

“Her what thingy?” Portia asked as she opened the passenger door.

Bramble snorted. “Oh, you’ll see, you’ll see.”

The trunk closed with a bang, and before Portia knew it, they were on their way.

The Nissan rattled and clattered so much during the ride that Portia was worried the old rust bucket would fall apart at any moment. Bramble on the other hand didn’t seem to be bothered at all. She sped along the narrow streets at a speed that must surely have been over the limit. Portia clasped the backpack on her lap with both hands and nervously watched the stone houses swoosh by outside.

She would have liked to ask Bramble to slow down but didn’t dare. In her half-moon glasses, she reminded Portia of the headmistress at her school, even though the tousled gray braid didn’t quite fit the image of a strict teacher. Her clothes were what you might charitably call practical: a flowery blouse, a washed-out green cardigan, and a faded pair of jeans tucked into her rain boots. Portia wondered what Bramble had been up to before she had left the house to pick her up at the train station.

“When we last saw you, you were three years old,” Bramble said, hurtling through a roundabout without even touching the brakes. A little gnome dangling from the rearview mirror bounced frantically up and down. “You probably don’t remember, do you?”

“No, I don’t, actually,” Portia replied. That gnome must be sick to his stomach, she thought.

“Well, it would be quite unusual if you did, actually.” Bramble rattled over a speed bump. “But I remember you used to love hiding things.” She laughed. “Once, you put Rose’s shoes in the oven. It must have taken her an hour to find them.”

“Um. I’m sorry, I suppose?” Portia stuttered, thrown off guard.

“Not at all!” said Bramble. “I discovered your little hiding place after about ten minutes, but it was simply too much fun to watch Rose searching high and low. We could do it again, but I reckon you’re too old for such shenanigans by now, aren’t you?”

Portia couldn’t help but smile. “I suppose I am.”

“What a shame,” Bramble sighed. “Music?”

Without waiting for Portia’s reply, she turned the radio on. ABBA’s “Waterloo” blared from the speakers, and Bramble immediately began humming along. Portia glanced over and noticed that her glasses had slid down to the tip of her nose. In fact, she didn’t look like a teacher at all, Portia decided. She was more like an archaeologist who dug up buried treasures or explored pyramids.

The only thing missing is an old leather hat, Portia thought. As if she had read Portia’s mind, Bramble glanced over at her and winked—perhaps she wasn’t as thorny as Portia had feared after all.