It sat on the shelf, a bit dusty and battered and Mum always told me to leave it alone.

I guess it was one of her last treasured possessions, I heard Dad say ‘Let’s throw it out’ but Mum had shaken her head ‘No I can’t do that’ and Dad hugged her.

Every now and then I took it down and looked at the pages, long recipes for jams and stewed puddings, I made a treacle sponge from it once, absolutely delicious. Mum took her first mouthful with an “mmm that is incredible” then she looked at it strangely like she remembered the taste but couldn’t place it. ‘Where did you get the recipe?’ She asked sharply.

‘Oh just google’ don’t know why I lied, couldn’t tell you but I just felt Mum would be cross.

That was the start of my fascination, the scones were incredible, the sponge light as air. I wish I’d known Grandma she must have been one hell of a cook.

Mum and Dad were heading out for the day, so I thought I’d surprise them. All day I worked steadily cooking, cooling, decorating, perfecting. I was so close to finishing the gingerbread house, just the way it looked in Grandma’s cookbook. The recipe demanded black icing for the door, I had been so faithful to the recipe but decided the door would look a lot better in pink and set to work.

Like a headache the voice screamed in my head ‘NO! NO! The door must be black’.

I searched the cupboards and there at the back was some black food colouring, humming to myself I started to mix it ‘Hurry, hurry’ said the voice.

The car lights lit up the driveway they were back ‘HURRY!’ Screamed the voice. I put my hands to my head to shut it out and then set to work as Mum came in.

The look on her face froze me with horror. She yelled my name and pulled me away sharply by the arm. Taking a rolling pin she smashed my beautiful house to pieces and hugged me tight.

Wordlessly she took me into the workroom she kept for herself at the back of the house, arranged on the shelf were four little houses each identical with a smart black door. She pointed at them in turn ‘Grandma, Aunt Edie, Cousin Emma and Cousin Jane’ she said. I shook my head not understanding. I found each of them dead on the kitchen floor - heart attack the doctors said - and each time on the table a beautiful gingerbread house, these houses. At night they light up and I talk to them in case they can still hear me, a tear ran down her face.

She went into the kitchen and took the cookbook up. ‘It’s time’ said Dad. She nodded and page by page she ripped it up and fed each recipe into the fire.