Prologue

1903

The girl had been wandering for some days on the North Downs, stumbling along what she believed to be the old Pilgrims’ Way. She’d lost track of time in her confused state, but she knew it was coming up to Christmas. Snow was falling thick and fast and she had no feeling in her feet, which were encased in boots with worn soles and cracked leather uppers. The dark, threatening sky above contrasted with the thick layers of snow-on-snow on which she staggered step by step; the cruel wind whacked her back and she cried out in agony. She clutched her shawl around her shoulders, dislodging the bundle fastened with odd pieces of string. She groaned as she bent slowly to retrieve it.

‘I must carry it; I can’t leave it behind, it’s all I have . . .’ she muttered. These lucid moments were fleeting.

She’d kept to the track, seeking shelter the first night after she fled in an abandoned shepherd’s hut. The door hung off its hinges and the bitter wind invaded the cracks in the wooden wall slats. Others had been there before her; she’d sorted among the debris they had left behind and found an empty brown beer bottle with the stopper lying nearby. Water, she thought, suddenly aware of how thirsty she was. I might be able to fill the bottle from a well on a small farm on the way – but where am I going? Home, she told herself. She sank down on a heap of old straw against a wall, closing her eyes, but she couldn’t escape the awful smell that assailed her nostrils. She could guess what the rusty bucket in the corner contained.

She endured another sleepless night in a crude shelter in a field. There was a red-streaked sky in the morning: shepherd’s warning – she must keep moving. Now, at dusk, alone in a white world of snow, she was retching, although her stomach was empty. She became aware of the muffled sound of bells. Am I dreaming? she wondered. Where am I? What am I doing here? Is it Christmas? Am I nearly home? The pain washed over her again, and near to collapse, she groaned, ‘If I lie down in the snow, I won’t be here tomorrow.’ In her distress, she thought she heard a voice urging her to carry on. Who is it? she wondered, and who am I?

In a brief respite from the flurries of snow, she noticed that there was a hamlet below the ridge. She had previously avoided descending to these small villages along the way, but now she plucked up the courage to follow the lights beaming from a row of cottages. The bells had become clearer, though they were not as sonorous as church bells, and through a window she glimpsed a circle of people around a table, each with a handbell, ringing in turn.

A woman came into the room with a tray full of glasses, steam rising from a bowl of punch. The bells were put down as she placed the tray on the table and began to ladle the punch into the glasses. A man went to add a fresh log to the fire that already roared up the chimney, then crossed to the window to close the curtains, but a small gap remained so that a chink of light was visible from outside. The girl moved away from the window. She leaned against the rough stone wall next to the front door and glimpsed a lovely wreath of holly fastened there. She pricked her finger as she touched it hesitantly, but her hands were so cold she didn’t feel anything. There was singing coming from the house now.

‘It came upon the midnight clear, That glorious song of old . . .’ They must be practising the bell-ringing and carols for Christmas, she thought.

Suddenly she heard organ music and felt drawn to find out where it was emanating from. Whoever was playing stopped abruptly. She saw a chapel further along the cobbled street; finding the oak door unlocked, she ventured inside, but no further than the porch, where she found a settle. This would be her bed for the night. She would be safe here, she was sure. There were notices on the walls but the light was too dim to discern them.

She rested her head on her bundle and shivered. Charity is cold – the words were jumbled in her head. She had no coat, just the shawl, and she tucked her numbed hands underneath it. She was too weary to attempt to remove her boots from her sore, blistered feet. They were smeared with clay after her slithering descent from the rough grass on the edge of the snow to the terrain below.

The inner door opened and a figure emerged from the chapel: a tall, well-built woman carrying a lantern. She looked down at the girl huddling on the settle, taking in the pale face and the shabby clothes, recognising fear in the blue eyes looking up at her.

‘There is nothing to be afraid of,’ she said gently. ‘You are welcome to rest here. I would offer you a bed for the night, but we have six sons still at home. I’ll come back soon with food for you. I am the minister’s wife.’ The girl’s eyes flickered and she nodded.

Later, the minister’s wife supported her with an arm around her narrow shoulders while the girl sipped hot soup from a tin mug. She broke pieces of soft new bread into a dish and added a chunk of cheese. ‘Eat what you can, it will give you strength,’ she said.

The empty crockery was packed into a bag, and from a reticule the woman produced a warm red and green plaid cape. ‘Let me help you put this on, my dear. It will be too large, no doubt, but wrap it around you and it will be as good as a blanket. I haven’t worn it in ages but I brought it here from Scotland when I married – I am glad for you to have it. In the pocket you’ll find a lucky piece of white heather; I put it there twenty years ago.’

When the minister’s wife returned the next morning with porridge and a bottle of tea, she found that the girl had gone. Her footprints had already been obliterated by a fresh fall of snow. She didn’t even tell me her name or where she was going, the woman recalled. In fact, she didn’t speak at all; she appeared to be suffering from shock. I can only pray she reaches her journey’s end safely . . .

 

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