Madeleine Robertson had been married a long time ago, to a man she loved with all her heart; he had loved her back for twelve happy years until he disappeared into the sunset with a milkmaid who had started work at the farm not three weeks before. Maidie had never bothered having another man, though she was a handsome woman and could have wed again. She simply never considered it. She was in love with Mr Robertson and that was that. She did not wallow in her miseries for long but sold the farm and got on with a good life by the river.
When the Hammers woke up to the sound of birdsong, she had a handsome breakfast ready. Though they ate well in London they had never had breakfast like this, with eggs and bacon and sausage all at once, and the children were silent, fixed on devouring it. Maidie Robertson chatted sociably to Grace, showing an interest without being too nosy.
‘So you came from London, you say?’
‘That’s right. We live there.’
‘I’ve a sister in London. I went once to see her. She lives in Brixton–do you know it? It’s dreadfully busy. You can’t hear yourself think for the chatter and the carriages. I saw a fire engine there, all the bells ringing and people jumping out of the way, such a commotion! Still, I expect you’re used to all the hustle and bustle.’
‘You do become accustomed to it, it’s true. That doesn’t mean we don’t like a bit of peace and quiet.’
‘We like the country,’ interjected Daisy.
‘Do you, young miss?’
‘Yes. We like it very much.’
‘You’re a good girl. Would you like to feed the chickens?’
They trooped out with Billy and Jake in tow, trying to get in on the chicken-feeding. Charlie and Grace washed the dishes.
‘So, what are you up to, then, Ma?’ he asked her, as if he expected a decent answer.
Go on, then, and tell him, he’s big enough, she thought. ‘We’re getting away from someone in London.’
‘Who?’
‘His name’s Mr Blunt. I knew him before you were born. I stole something from him, years ago, something very precious, and he has found me out after all this time. You go along with me in everything, in trust, as you always have.’
‘I know, Ma.’
‘Do you, though?’
‘Yes,’ he said, solid as a brick wall. ‘Don’t worry, Ma. We’ll be all right. He won’t get past Daisy.’
They were laughing as the troops came back into the kitchen.
‘Why are you laughing?’ demanded Daisy, straight away. They laughed more then, and she shot them one of her hard stares.
After roast lamb and potatoes and a look at The Water Babies, Grace felt the itch to move and on they went, packed into their trusty boat, laden with food. They waved until they had rounded the bend, entreaties to return at any time and to take care ringing in their ears.
The day was not as bright as the one before, and it seemed that the moment Mrs Robertson’s cottage was out of sight it began to rain, as if encouraging them to turn back. Grace struck up a chorus of ‘The Fireman’s Dog’ to raise flagging spirits. They pushed on for a while, taking shelter under a huge willow tree some half a mile on as the day grew wetter. Under the branches was a green kingdom, enchanted and dry, the leafy roof curving round them. They waited for the rain to stop.
Jack was nursing a pint in the Ten Bells, wondering where Grace had gone. He had been busy the last day or two with some casual work and various unexpected but pleasing female distractions. Now that these were finished, and he was bored, he was annoyed to find her unavailable for entertainment. With complete disregard for his own comings and goings the last week, he mulled possessively over where she could have gone without so much as a nod in his direction, and whether she had another fancy man. How could she! He felt, with a stab, that hard truth, that you can’t have your cake and eat it.
Many miles away, tucked under a tarpaulin in the rain with her children, Grace suddenly thought of him. More a picture than a thought: his hands, his jaw, his melting grin. She felt a pang of sadness until she remembered he was no good.
In a lonely house in Shoreditch Mirabel Trotter sat before the fire in her darkened room, counting the days since she had seen Trixie May Turner; she reckoned it at eleven. She sensed something was up–there had been not a word–and she missed her. She calmed herself by having a little brandy, and then another. Her burly sons were downstairs but she didn’t want their company. Mrs Trotter poured herself one more and swallowed it straight, listening to shouts and laughter below. Staring into the fire, she saw blue dragons, devil-heads, burning buildings.