The Light Between Oceans(84)

‘My forest?’

‘Well, it belongs to me, and one day it’ll belong to your mummy and your Auntie Gwen, and then it’ll be yours. What do you think of that?’

‘Can I giddy up the horse?’ she asked.

Septimus laughed. ‘Give me your hands and we’ll hold the reins together.’

‘Here she is, safe and sound,’ said Septimus as he delivered Grace to Hannah.

‘Thanks, Dad.’ She bobbed down to her daughter’s level. ‘Did you have a lovely day?’

Grace nodded.

‘And did you pat the horses?’

‘Yes,’ she said softly, rubbing her eyes.

‘It’s been a long day, sweetie. It’s time for a bath, and then we’ll get you to bed.’

‘He gived me the forest,’ said Grace, with the trace of a smile, and Hannah’s heart skipped.

After Grace’s bath that evening, Hannah sat on the little girl’s bed. ‘I’m so glad you had a good day. Tell me all about the things you saw, sweetheart.’

‘A quotta.’

‘Pardon?’

‘A quotta that’s little and hops.’

‘Ah! A quokka! Sweet little things, aren’t they? And what else?’

‘A big horse. I drove it.’

‘Do you remember its name?

The girl thought. ‘Araballa.’

‘Arabella, that’s right. She’s lovely. She’s got friends there too – Samson, and Hercules, and Diana. Arabella’s quite old now, you know. But she’s still very strong. Did Granddad show you the timber whims she can pull?’ The girl looked confused, and Hannah said, ‘The great big carts, with just two huge wheels. That’s how they used to pull the big trees out of the forest once they cut them down.’ The child shook her head, and Hannah said, ‘Oh, my darling. There’s so much I want to show you. You’ll love the forest, I promise.’

As Grace drifted off to sleep, Hannah stayed beside her, planning. She would show her the wildflowers when spring came. She would get a little pony for her – a Shetland, perhaps, so they could ride through the narrow forest trails together. A vista of decades suddenly opened out in her imagination, and she dared to explore them. ‘Welcome home,’ she whispered to her sleeping daughter. ‘Welcome home at last, my darling,’ and she went about her duties that evening humming under her breath.





CHAPTER 30



PARTAGEUSE HAS ONLY so many people, and only so many places those people can be. Sooner or later, you’re bound to bump into someone you’d rather avoid.

It had taken days for Violet to persuade her daughter to leave the house. ‘Come on, just come for a walk with me while I pop into Mouchemore’s. I need some more wool for that bedcover I’m doing.’ No more sweet cardigans. No more diminutive Liberty lawn dresses. These days she was back to crocheting blankets for the last of the wretches languishing in the Repat home. Well, it kept her hands busy, even if it couldn’t always occupy her mind.

‘Mum, really, I don’t feel up to it. I’ll just stay here.’

‘Oh, come on, darling.’

As the pair walked down the street, people tried not to look too obviously. A few offered polite smiles, but there was none of the old ‘How are things, Vi?’ or ‘See you at church on Sunday?’ No one was sure how to treat this mourning that wasn’t for a death. Some crossed the street to avoid them. Townsfolk read the newspapers to extract what gobbets they could, but things had gone quiet of late.

As Violet and her daughter passed through the doors of the haberdasher’s, Fanny Darnley, on her way out, gave a little gasp, and halted outside, wide-eyed with alarm and relish.

The shop smelled of lavender polish, and old roses from the potpourri set out in a basket near the cash register. High up the walls on all sides ranked bolts of cloth – damasks and muslins, linens and cottons. There were rainbows of thread and clouds of balled wool. Cards of lace – thick, thin, Brussels, French – lay on the table where Mr Mouchemore was serving an elderly woman. All the way from the counter at the far end, a row of tables lined the store on each side, with chairs for the comfort of customers.

Seated at one of the tables with their backs to Isabel were two women. One was blonde; the other, who was dark-haired, was considering a bolt of pale-lemon linen unrolled before her. At her side, glum and fidgeting with a rag doll, was a little blonde girl, immaculately turned out in a pink smocked dress, her white socks trimmed with lace.

As the woman examined the cloth, asking the attendant questions about price and quantity, the little girl’s eyes drifted up to see who had come in. She dropped the doll and scrambled down from the chair. ‘Mamma!’ she called, dashing to Isabel. ‘Mamma! Mamma!’

Before anyone could take in what had happened, Lucy had wrapped her arms around Isabel’s legs and was holding as fast as a crab.

‘Oh Lucy!’ Isabel bundled her up and hugged her, letting the child snuggle into her neck. ‘Lucy, my darling!’

‘That bad lady took me, Mamma! She did smack me!’ the child whimpered, pointing.

‘Oh, my poor, poor sweetheart!’ Isabel was squeezing the girl to her, sobbing at the touch of her, the legs fitting snugly around her waist and the head slotting automatically into the space beneath her chin, like the final piece of a jigsaw. She was oblivious to anything and anyone else.