sister’s bedroom.
When Vivian collected the laundry from the vicarage, the vicar’s wife asked after Nellie. Vivian said she was away visiting relatives. She made it sound so convincing, she almost believed her lies.
Slowly Vivian’s sickness left her. Her hair began to shine and her appetite increased. She filled out, her cheeks rounded, her eyes shone. She tied her corset tighter every day against her swelling body. When she passed Rose’s bedroom she put her fingers in her ears, but still there was the accusing voice of her sister’s ghost.
A late summer storm woke her and she stood watching yellow lightning illuminating the river. The wind shook the black poplar trees, making their ancient limbs groan and murmur. They sounded like a choir of voices. Like gossips chattering, recounting a scandalous tale.
I hear them too
, she heard Rose say, her voice rattling the window frames.
Harvests were brought in and the land ploughed into stiff clay furrows. Still Nellie did not come back. The bees in the orchard swarmed and disappeared, leaving their hives to be squatted by woodlice and earwigs. The trees bent to the ground, their limbs heavy with fruit. Overripe apples scented the air, and mornings turned damp and misty.
Louisa came to gather windfalls with her mother, Anna Moats. The two of them remarked upon Vivian’s changing looks. They told her she must be a late bloomer. Even Vivian could see it. In the small hand mirror the sisters owned, she saw how her eyes shone. Her face had filled out and softened. Her blonde hair was thick and lustrous.
Vivian should find herself a husband, Louisa teased.
Vivian believed she deserved nothing of the sort. If they knew what she had done, they would have banished her from their company.
‘My sister Nellie will be home soon,’ she told them, as if this was more important than any talk of husbands.
At Christmas, the vicar dropped off a package from his wife. A blood-red paisley-patterned dress, and a soft woollen shawl, slightly holed by moths.
‘It’s blue,’ said Vivian, holding the shawl up.
‘You have worn black long enough now, Vivian. We hope to see you at church with your sister when she returns.’
Vivian wore the shawl and it was a comfort to her. She sat upstairs in her bedroom, letting out her waistbands and sewing extra seams in her blouses. Every night she dreamed of Joe Ferier coming to her bed. She woke in the mornings lonelier and hungrier than ever.
Four
When Vivian had put the hagstone on the table and the sisters had stared at Joe’s hat, retrieved from their bed, Nellie had wanted to hurt Vivian. Instead she had gone to the river to swim. When she got back she dressed in her best clothes and stood for a long time in their bedroom, watching Vivian sleeping, standing over her, listening to her breathing. Nellie put the hagstone on her pillow, picked up her suitcase and tiptoed downstairs. She could never harm Vivian but she could not stay with her either.
All through the night as she walked, she heard Rose’s voice, recounting stories of criminals and murderers. Though she told herself she was not afraid, she didn’t risk stopping to sleep in a haystack or barn. She was not given to this kind of fear, but then, she concluded, she had been innocent before. Only those who had known or witnessed bad things knew the kind of treachery the night hid.
She reached the town at dawn, just as the factory workers were crowding the streets on their way to work. She sat down on a bench by the corn exchange and slept. In the afternoon the sound of a barrel organ woke her. The monkey she had given money to just days before came and sat beside her, offering a slice of apple. She took the fruit gratefully, and the man turning the barrel said he remembered her.
‘You’re our lucky shilling lady. Yes, I remember you. The name’s Eddie Samson. You all right, Miss?’
‘Not really,’ said Nellie. She was too tired to be shy. ‘What’s the monkey’s
When Vivian collected the laundry from the vicarage, the vicar’s wife asked after Nellie. Vivian said she was away visiting relatives. She made it sound so convincing, she almost believed her lies.
Slowly Vivian’s sickness left her. Her hair began to shine and her appetite increased. She filled out, her cheeks rounded, her eyes shone. She tied her corset tighter every day against her swelling body. When she passed Rose’s bedroom she put her fingers in her ears, but still there was the accusing voice of her sister’s ghost.
A late summer storm woke her and she stood watching yellow lightning illuminating the river. The wind shook the black poplar trees, making their ancient limbs groan and murmur. They sounded like a choir of voices. Like gossips chattering, recounting a scandalous tale.
I hear them too
, she heard Rose say, her voice rattling the window frames.
Harvests were brought in and the land ploughed into stiff clay furrows. Still Nellie did not come back. The bees in the orchard swarmed and disappeared, leaving their hives to be squatted by woodlice and earwigs. The trees bent to the ground, their limbs heavy with fruit. Overripe apples scented the air, and mornings turned damp and misty.
Louisa came to gather windfalls with her mother, Anna Moats. The two of them remarked upon Vivian’s changing looks. They told her she must be a late bloomer. Even Vivian could see it. In the small hand mirror the sisters owned, she saw how her eyes shone. Her face had filled out and softened. Her blonde hair was thick and lustrous.
Vivian should find herself a husband, Louisa teased.
Vivian believed she deserved nothing of the sort. If they knew what she had done, they would have banished her from their company.
‘My sister Nellie will be home soon,’ she told them, as if this was more important than any talk of husbands.
At Christmas, the vicar dropped off a package from his wife. A blood-red paisley-patterned dress, and a soft woollen shawl, slightly holed by moths.
‘It’s blue,’ said Vivian, holding the shawl up.
‘You have worn black long enough now, Vivian. We hope to see you at church with your sister when she returns.’
Vivian wore the shawl and it was a comfort to her. She sat upstairs in her bedroom, letting out her waistbands and sewing extra seams in her blouses. Every night she dreamed of Joe Ferier coming to her bed. She woke in the mornings lonelier and hungrier than ever.
Four
When Vivian had put the hagstone on the table and the sisters had stared at Joe’s hat, retrieved from their bed, Nellie had wanted to hurt Vivian. Instead she had gone to the river to swim. When she got back she dressed in her best clothes and stood for a long time in their bedroom, watching Vivian sleeping, standing over her, listening to her breathing. Nellie put the hagstone on her pillow, picked up her suitcase and tiptoed downstairs. She could never harm Vivian but she could not stay with her either.
All through the night as she walked, she heard Rose’s voice, recounting stories of criminals and murderers. Though she told herself she was not afraid, she didn’t risk stopping to sleep in a haystack or barn. She was not given to this kind of fear, but then, she concluded, she had been innocent before. Only those who had known or witnessed bad things knew the kind of treachery the night hid.
She reached the town at dawn, just as the factory workers were crowding the streets on their way to work. She sat down on a bench by the corn exchange and slept. In the afternoon the sound of a barrel organ woke her. The monkey she had given money to just days before came and sat beside her, offering a slice of apple. She took the fruit gratefully, and the man turning the barrel said he remembered her.
‘You’re our lucky shilling lady. Yes, I remember you. The name’s Eddie Samson. You all right, Miss?’
‘Not really,’ said Nellie. She was too tired to be shy. ‘What’s the monkey’s
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