We push open the stiff front door – unlocked, of course. Mum never locks it, she says if someone’s going to choose a house on Tregunter Road to rob, it won’t be ours. My eyes sweep over the exposed brick of the hallway, half the plaster still lingering in patches. Mum’s right, any burglar would take one look at the layers of peeling wallpaper in here and determine there’s nothing worth stealing. They’d be wrong though, most of Mum’s art is worth an absolute fortune. She’d never sell any of the early work she still has around the house though, she’s far too sentimental about it.
“In here!” Mum’s voice echoes from the kitchen, which is deep in the back of the house. We tiptoe through two vast rooms that most people would use as sitting rooms but Mum uses as studio space. Huge canvases lean against the walls, and the floor is covered in paint splatters. Mum gave up using dust sheets for
