‘Get Dawson to take a look at Flint’s back leg while you’re at it,’ Laurence told Joyce when his two collies jumped eagerly into the back of the Land-Rover, expecting to be put to work as usual.
In fact, Joyce was about to drive to the vet’s surgery in Shawcross to pick up a bottle of disinfectant that they needed for a cow’s infected teat.
‘Right you are,’ she replied as she turned on the engine.
She’d worked for four days at Black Crag Farm without a single please or thank-you, penning dozens of Swaledales to check the feet of ones that were lame, milking cows and mucking out the cowshed. She’d bottled and sterilized, dug a ditch and hacked away at a hawthorn hedge. She’d taken the work in her stride, but at the end of each day she’d climbed the wooden steps to her attic quarters and fallen into bed exhausted. She’d slept soundly and woken in the morning to the sound of a door opening then clicking shut on the landing below, followed by Laurence’s brisk footfall and the more distant sound of tap water running into the kitchen sink.
Even though it was still dark, this was Joyce’s signal to get up and dressed. Then she would descend the stairs and pass the two doorways on the landing, down more stairs, across the kitchen and straight out into the unlit farmyard without so much as a hello from Laurence. There were the three cows to be milked, and only after that a cup of tea and a bite to eat. By this time Alma would be up, making porridge and setting out the breakfast things. She would nod at Joyce but not speak, turning away her damaged face to pay attention to Laurence’s orders for the day: sweep the floors, clean out the fire grates, wash and iron, polish, bake. Alma would nod then quietly set about her tasks.
Joyce had observed the ill-matched couple without comment, though sometimes her hackles would rise at the control Laurence held over his wife’s routine.
‘You’re not to bake scones this week,’ he had told Alma on Friday morning. ‘We’re out of dried eggs and raisins.’
Alma had frowned, as if about to argue. Then she’d glanced at Joyce and remained silent, her face reddening as she retied her apron strings into a tighter bow before clattering dirty dishes into the sink.
If that’s marriage, give me the single life any day, Joyce concluded. In any case, she was sure she would never agree to marry a man like Laurence Bradley, who was the opposite of her own fiancé. Edgar never dished out orders; he was a sensitive, devoted and kindly soul.
Glad that she’d posted a letter to him in time for the end-of-week collection, she now looked forward to receiving his reply.
‘On second thoughts, leave Patch here with me.’ Laurence changed his mind just as Joyce was about to pull out of the yard. He whistled the black-and-white dog, which leaped down from the Land-Rover and went to sit quietly at his master’s feet. ‘Afterwards, you and Flint can join us at Mary’s Fall.’
Glad of a short respite away from the farm, Joyce set off with the grey speckled Border collie. Last night and again this morning she’d noticed a reduced yield in one of the cows and discovered that her teat was swollen. Laurence had given her the name and address of the local vet: Geoffrey Dawson, New Hall, Riverside, Shawcross. ‘Tell him we won’t waste his time by fetching him out. We just need the disinfectant. Be as quick as you can.’
So Joyce drove down into the valley under a blue sky, glad that this was Saturday and a half day off but remembering that Brenda had already made plans for the weekend so she would have to entertain herself, unless she walked the mile and a half to the Acklam Castle estate to see if Evelyn was at a loose end. Joyce didn’t think that their new acquaintance would object to an unannounced visit but she would wait and see if the good weather held before she finally decided.
Soon the village came into view; first the square church tower and then the vicarage and church hall facing on to the green. Joyce negotiated a sharp bend then came to a narrow packhorse bridge over a stream before levelling out for the final approach into Shawcross. As she arrived, she noticed Walter Rigg emerge from his house with Alan trailing forlornly behind. The vicar said something to the boy who ran back into the house and emerged on to the driveway carrying his coat, which he put on as the vicar started his car. Alan pulled his cap from his pocket then got in. As he did so, a piece of white paper fell to the ground. A gust of wind caught it and blew it on to the green.
The vicar’s black Ford had already disappeared along the Burnside road before Joyce had time to stop the Land-Rover and jump out to retrieve what turned out to be a letter beginning, Dear Mummy and Daddy.
Making a mental note to keep the paper safe, she put it in her pocket then drove on slowly past the row of cottages, looking out for a narrow turn that ought to take her to New Hall. Sure enough, a rutted track ran down the side of the cottages towards the river where there was another bridge and on the far bank a substantial Queen Anne house with long windows to either side of an impressive doorway overlooking wide lawns and backed by mature oak trees.
As the Land-Rover slowed for the bridge, Flint crept forward to join Joyce. He slunk on to the passenger seat and peered through the windscreen, pink tongue lolling and ears pricked.
‘You recognize where we are and why we’ve come, is that it?’ she said with a laugh. ‘Stay!’ she told him. ‘I’ll come and fetch you in a minute.’
She went straight to the front door then glanced down at her muddy boots and hesitated; perhaps there was a tradesmen’s entrance she should use? So she tramped along the front of the house and was about to disappear round the side when the front door opened and a man appeared. He was about thirty; tall and rangy, casually dressed in slacks and checked shirt with rolled-back sleeves. His hair was almost black and he had dark, deep-set eyes.
‘Can I help you?’ he called to Joyce.
She strode back. ‘I’m looking for Mr Dawson.’
‘Well, you’ve found him.’ He came down the steps with his hand outstretched, taking in her uniform. ‘You’re in the Land Army, I presume?’
‘Yes. I’m Joyce Cutler. I work for Mr Bradley at Black Crag Farm.’
‘Lucky you,’ he said with a slight rise of his eyebrows before glancing towards the Land-Rover. ‘Well, Miss Cutler, who have you got in there with you?’
‘That’s Flint. He’s gone lame.’
‘Has he, now?’
‘Yes, but the main reason I’m here is to ask you for some disinfectant for one of our cows’ teats. We’ve run out.’
‘I take it she has a touch of mastitis?’ Geoffrey Dawson walked with Joyce around the side of the house. ‘I run the surgery from an extension round the back. Are you sure you don’t want me to come out to Black Crag and take a look?’
Joyce shook her head. ‘Mr Bradley gave me strict instructions to ask for the disinfectant, nothing else.’
There was no comment from the young vet as he led her into a single-storey building constructed much more recently than the original house. Inside there was a spotlessly clean reception area leading to a treatment room and a smaller side room containing shelves stacked with medicines and surgical paraphernalia.
Geoffrey picked out a ridged brown bottle and handed it to Joyce. ‘Use this on all the teats and on the other cows in the shed as well. Do it thoroughly after every milking. I don’t need to tell you that mastitis is highly infectious and it can be tricky to clear up.’
Joyce promised to follow his instructions. ‘I’m better with sheep than cows,’ she confessed. ‘I grew up with them on my father’s farm. As far as cows are concerned, I’m learning on the job.’
Geoffrey listened attentively with his head to one side, a wayward lick of dark hair sticking upright on his crown. He liked the look of the new Land Girl with the cheerful, open expression and clear grey eyes set off by the forward tilt of her brimmed hat. ‘Have you got time for a cup of tea before I examine the dog?’
‘Yes, if you can make it a quick one.’
She followed him through a door that linked the surgery to the main house and they entered a spacious, well-equipped kitchen with a large window overlooking a garden where there was an apple orchard that had been pruned back in readiness for winter. Joyce admired the view while Geoffrey made the tea.
‘How are you getting along with our friend, Laurence Bradley?’ he asked as he handed her a steaming mug.
‘Well enough, thank you.’ Discreet as always, she took her first sip.
‘He doesn’t work you too hard?’
‘No. I can get by, ta.’
‘Good for you.’ Geoffrey stood beside her at the window.
‘Who looks after your garden?’ Joyce admired some neat rows of cabbages and Brussels sprouts.
‘I do most of it myself. Evelyn Newbold lends a hand with the orchard when she has time. She belongs to the Timber Corps. You’ve met her, I suppose?’
‘Yes, twice.’ Aware of the time slipping by, Joyce cut the conversation short. ‘Shall we look at the dog while the tea cools?’
So they went outside to the Land-Rover and Geoffrey cast an expert eye over Flint. He spoke quietly as he felt the joints of the affected leg for any swelling then examined the soft pads of the foot. ‘Take it easy, old chap. I’m not going to hurt you. Aha, here we are!’ He showed Joyce an ulcerated area oozing with pus partly concealed by fur. ‘It most likely started with a small cut that became infected. The best thing to do is to soak the foot in hot water then poultice it. I’ll give you some antiseptic ointment to apply before you bandage it. The poor chap will have to be kept off work for a few days.’
Joyce nodded. ‘I’ll let Mr Bradley know.’
‘Tea?’ he reminded her after he’d given Joyce the disinfectant and the antiseptic ointment and she’d returned Flint to the front seat of the Land-Rover.
‘If I’m really quick.’
Back in the kitchen, the probing continued. ‘How’s Alma Bradley? Have you had much to do with her?’
‘Not really.’
‘But she’s hale and hearty?’
‘She seems to be.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘You mean, why don’t I mind my own business?’ Geoffrey turned to the sink with an apologetic shrug. ‘I’m sorry for putting you on the spot; it’s just that no one in the village has seen hide nor hair of Alma since the wedding back in August. We’re all a little bit worried about her.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m sorry; it’s not like me to encourage gossip.’ He seemed genuinely embarrassed as he took Joyce’s empty cup. ‘The thing is, Alma doesn’t have family in the village. She’d lived away from Shawcross for a long time so the marriage to Laurence took everyone by surprise.’
‘How old is she?’ Joyce asked in spite of her earlier reticence.
‘Twenty-two. Has she told you what happened to her face?’
Joyce opened her eyes wide. ‘You mean Alma can speak?’
Geoffrey nodded. ‘If she wants to, she can. She stood in front of the vicar and said “I do” as clear as a bell.’
‘Her face?’ Curiosity again got the better of Joyce and she returned to the mystery of Alma’s scars. ‘Was it a fire?’
‘Yes, when she was eight years old. She lived with her family on a smallholding half a mile downriver from here. The whole house burned to the ground. I was home from veterinary college for the Christmas holidays when it happened so I remember it well. Alma was the only one who came out alive.’
‘But she can talk.’ Alma’s choice to remain silent was a conundrum that Joyce couldn’t solve. ‘Thanks, Mr Dawson. I appreciate you telling me.’
He nodded and accompanied her through the surgery out into the yard. ‘Let’s do away with the formalities,’ he said as they shook hands again. ‘Call me Geoff and, if you don’t mind, I’ll drop the Miss Cutler.’
‘Thanks, Geoff,’ she said with a smile. ‘And by all means, call me Joyce.’
He returned the smile and tapped the bottle of disinfectant tucked under her arm. ‘Twice a day, morning and evening. If it doesn’t do the trick, tell Laurence he’ll have to stump up for a visit from me, like it or not.’
Joyce began the drive back to Black Crag Farm by sifting through the facts she’d learned about Laurence and Alma’s unusual situation. She was preoccupied as she crossed the river but when she emerged on to the village green and saw Walter Rigg’s Ford car parked outside the vicarage, she suddenly remembered Alan’s letter. She would drop it off with its owner, she decided. But she fumbled as she put on the handbrake and the letter fluttered from her pocket down on to the muddy floor.
Oh dear; Alan will have to write it out again on a clean sheet of paper, Joyce thought as she retrieved it and smoothed it flat.
Dear Mummy and Daddy
The blue ink was smudged, the crumpled paper smeared with mud.
I am settling quite well here in Shawcross. I miss you a lot.
The next part was illegible so Joyce had to pick up the thread two lines further down.
How are you both? Well, I hope you are getting on all right without me and Judith. My foster father is Mr Rigg. He is very cheerful.
More smudges marred the next short section. Then Joyce read:
It is really quiet here. I will have to go to school in the next village, which is called Thwaite. The house that I live in is called The Vicarage. It has four master bedrooms. There is a graveyard with a white angel outside my window. It is quite lonely here. I really miss you and I wish you were here.
Love from your best son,
Alan
Perfectly punctuated, written in laborious, joined-up handwriting, the letter touched Joyce deeply. Poor little lamb, trying to be brave yet obviously longing to be at home with his family.
Home was Millwood, where the bombs dropped with fierce regularity on the mills manufacturing cloth for army uniforms, where sensible, self-sacrificing parents chose to ship their children off to the countryside with gas masks strapped around their slight shoulders, their belongings clearly labelled. Sent off to be with strangers and to cry bitter, homesick tears, and in Alan’s case to look out over a graveyard stacked with dead bodies, guarded by a stone angel.
‘Poor little lamb,’ Joyce said out loud.
She walked up the vicarage path and knocked on the door. The vicar appeared minus his dog collar and in shirtsleeves, his belly barely restrained by belt and braces. He beamed at Joyce as he took Alan’s letter and she caught a glimpse of the boy hovering nervously at the bottom of the stairs.
‘That’s most kind, most thoughtful.’ Walter scanned the contents. ‘Oh, it says here that I’m very cheerful, eh? That’s nice to know.’ The smile faded as he reached the end. ‘Lonely? Yes, I suppose it must be. But never mind, Alan; we all have our crosses to bear.’
The door closed with a firm click and Joyce felt uncomfortable as she returned to the Land-Rover. ‘Now then, Flint, I hope Mr Rigg doesn’t blame Alan over the loneliness remark,’ she said to the dog by her side. ‘After all, that wouldn’t be fair, would it?’
‘You can drop me outside the Blacksmith’s Arms,’ Brenda told Cliff Huby from the back seat of his Morris Minor as he drove her and Dorothy into Burnside that Saturday morning. ‘Mr Kershaw gave me permission to leave Old Sloper in a shed behind the forge. He said I could pick her up any time. Yes, just here is champion. Ta very much!’
Everything had gone to plan: Cliff had arrived at Garthside Farm at the appointed time. Dorothy had been almost ready. Cliff had chatted with his father while Brenda had helped Dorothy to choose between two dresses that she might wear for a night out at the flicks. The crimson one with wide shoulder pads or the slim-fitting navy blue one with the kick-pleat at the back? Crimson or navy blue? Dorothy had made Brenda decide. Then, on the journey down the dale, she’d chatted non-stop, galloping off at tangents that included the hardships imposed by clothes rationing, the relief of Malta (‘At last!’), Mr Churchill’s fat cigar (‘Smelly and disgusting!’) and the unflattering uniforms that Land Girls were forced to wear.
‘I don’t know how you put up with those dungaree thingummies,’ she’d commiserated with Brenda from the front seat. ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead in them.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Cliff had chipped in with a quick glance over his shoulder. ‘I reckon Brenda might be able to pull them off.’
Dorothy had picked up her brother’s sly innuendo and embarrassed Brenda. ‘“Pull them off!” Oh, I say!’
Cliff had jokily protested his innocence and Brenda had let it go.
‘Right here,’ she said again as he pulled up in the pub yard. ‘Champion, thanks.’
Making an ungainly exit from the cramped vehicle, she said cheerio then waved Cliff and Dorothy on their way. Then, before she had time to gather her wits, Una ran across the road.
‘Brenda!’ Una flung her arms around her. ‘I saw you from Grace’s house. Who was that in the car with you? What are you doing here? Have you come back to the hostel? Please say you have.’
‘Steady on.’ Brenda freed herself and saw Grace standing in her doorway, hands clasped high over her stomach in expectant-mother pose.
Brenda let Una drag her by the hand to say hello. ‘I’m here on a flying visit,’ she explained. ‘Oh, but it is good to see you both. Una, how’s Fieldhead?’
‘Quiet without you, that’s for sure.’
‘And Grace, are you looking after yourself properly?’
‘Yes, under the orders of you-know-who.’
‘Your fire-eating mother-in-law,’ Brenda said, quick as a flash.
‘Yes,’ Grace sighed. ‘“You must eat, you must rest, don’t listen to the News; it will only upset you.”’
‘She’s right about that,’ Una pointed out as the happily reunited trio went inside. ‘The last I heard, the French navy has had to scuttle its own fleet to keep it out of German hands.’
‘Una!’ Brenda pretended to put her hands around her neck to throttle her.
Grace laughed. ‘I may be expecting a baby but I haven’t gone soft in the head. I’m glued to the wireless regardless. How long are you here for, Brenda? Do you have time for a cup of tea?’
‘No, I can’t stop. I only came to pick up Old Sloper. But quickly, before I go I want to hear the latest about Angelo and Bill.’
‘Bill’s regiment is being sent to Burma.’ Grace’s stoical expression disguised her inner turmoil. ‘We’ve been expecting it.’
‘I’ve had a long letter from Angelo.’ Una beamed. ‘He likes being at the seaside but he misses me.’
‘Quite right too!’
‘And what about Les?’ Grace asked Brenda.
She frowned and looked down at her feet. ‘I still haven’t heard from him. But I do know that he’s expected home this weekend.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Una cried.
Grace immediately whisked Brenda towards the door. ‘Whatever are you hanging around here for?’
They shooed her out of the house then hurried her across the road. ‘Go!’ they ordered. ‘Get on your bike and ride like the wind!’
Brenda rode the familiar road from Burnside along Swinsty Edge, past Hawkshead then over the grouse moor towards Attercliffe. Speed and the open road thrilled her as much as ever, so that by the time she slowed down for the hairpin bends on her final descent towards Dale End, her spirits were higher than they’d been for a long time.
This is just the job, she thought. Blue skies, a touch of hoar frost on the hedgerows, not another soul in sight; what could be better?
The road twisted and narrowed as at last the Whites’ grand farmhouse came into view. She braked and felt her heart beat faster. ‘Les!’ she murmured as she turned into the driveway leading to the house. It was four months since she’d seen her fiancé and almost as many weeks since she’d received a letter. Now the silence would be broken. He would be waiting at a window. He would hear the bike then rush out of the door and wrap his arms around her. She would sink her head against his shoulder and lose herself in his embrace.
Oddly, though, there was no face at any of the windows. The only sign of life was Arnold White’s two springer spaniels racing through the open door and circling Brenda’s bike as she set it on its stand. They jumped up at her and harried her as she took off her goggles and gauntlets then approached the steps.
‘Hello?’ she called through the door. The hall was empty, the door into the sitting room closed. ‘Is anyone there?’
Arnold came out of his study and called his dogs. There was a whiff of tobacco smoke and a closed look on his face that told Brenda that she wasn’t expected or indeed welcome.
She stood on the step, enduring an awkward silence and waiting for Les’s father to invite her in. Arnold cleared his throat. He was upright as ever; shoulders back, jaw clenched, immaculate in tweeds with a neatly knotted tie, gleaming gold cufflinks and watch chain. ‘Hmm,’ he said, before gesturing towards the sitting room then retreating with his dogs into his book-lined room.
Brenda swallowed her disappointment and tapped on the sitting-room door. It was opened by a girl with a thin, serious face. Her brown hair hung in two long plaits tied with tartan ribbons and she wore a hand-knitted fawn jumper under a plain grey pinafore skirt. Her air was shy and apprehensive.
‘Hello.’ Brenda spoke quietly. Events were not unfolding the way she’d anticipated.
‘Is that you, Brenda?’ From inside the room Hettie sounded irritated.
Brenda stepped past the girl. ‘Yes, here I am, tra-la!’
A fire blazed in the Adam fireplace, making the room uncomfortably hot. Hettie sat on the sofa with her paisley shawl around her shoulders, her dark hair combed straight back from her handsome face.
‘That will do for now, Judith,’ she told the girl, who backed out of the room then closed the door. ‘Now, Brenda, put your things down over there, out of the way. What do make of our new resident?’
Brenda sat in a chair near the French windows, the coolest spot in the room. She looked around for signs of Les’s presence: records taken out of their paper sleeves, ready to be played on the gramophone, or else one of his jackets slung across the back of a chair. ‘She seems shy,’ she said in answer to Hettie’s brusque question. ‘Who is she?’
‘She’s an evacuee. Judith Evans, aged thirteen and three-quarters. The three-quarters are important, apparently. Dad decided on the spur of the moment we should take in a child from Millwood. I know, I know; spontaneous acts of generosity aren’t his style. But it’s the war. We all have to …’
‘Do our bit.’ Brenda finished the sentence. Hettie seemed weary and had obviously not yet got over her recent illness. ‘I have an idea that Joyce and I sat on the bus out to Shawcross with Judith’s brother, Alan. He seems a nice little lad – shy like his sister.’
‘Judith has good manners, thank goodness.’ Hettie frowned then addressed the elephant in the room. ‘I suppose you were expecting to see Les?’
Brenda felt her stomach muscles tighten. This was not going to be good news, she realized.
‘But as you can see, he’s not here. Unfortunately his leave was cancelled at the last minute. Didn’t Donald telephone you?’
The knot in Brenda’s stomach tightened. ‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Oh dear. I specifically asked him to call, to save you an unnecessary journey. We all feel let down, of course.’
Brenda bit her lip. ‘I suppose it can’t be helped.’ There was to be no Les, no embrace, no outpouring of the complicated emotions pent up inside her. How on earth was she to go on hoping and wishing, dreaming and loving her fiancé without hearing his voice or feeling his lips on hers?
As Brenda tried to bring her emotions under control, Hettie picked up a small bell from the low table in front of her. Its tinkling sound brought Judith back into the room. ‘Could you ask Donald to join us, please?’ Hettie asked in a prim, precise voice.
Judith disappeared and Brenda endured another tricky silence before Donald put in an appearance. ‘Heigh-ho,’ he said when he saw a stony-faced Brenda. ‘I take it my telephone message didn’t reach you?’
‘That’s right, it didn’t.’
‘But I did make the call on Thursday morning,’ he insisted as he leaned on the back of Hettie’s sofa and gave the distinct impression of not altogether regretting his brother’s absence. ‘As a matter of fact, Brenda, I went to a good deal of trouble on your behalf. First off, I spoke to the warden at Fieldhead who gave me the telephone number for … now, what was it? Oh yes, the number for Garthside Farm in Shawcross.’
Brenda did her best not to feel irritated by Donald’s teasing manner and to look him steadily in the eye.
‘Actually, I was surprised they had a telephone line out there. I called the exchange and the operator put me through to a person answering to the name of Miss Dorothy Huby.’
‘You told Dorothy that Les’s leave was cancelled?’ A flash of anger ran through Brenda.
‘Uh-oh, and she didn’t pass on the message? That was very naughty of her. Not that we’re not glad to see you – isn’t that right, Hettie?’ Giving his sister a peck on the cheek, he strolled over to lean his elbow on the back of Brenda’s chair. His face came to within six inches of hers. ‘And now that you’re here, what can I get you to drink? Is it too early for your favourite tipple? Dubonnet, isn’t it?’
Brenda gave him a withering look. ‘No ta, Donald. I won’t stop long – I can see that Hettie’s tired.’
He turned to look out of the window while Hettie shifted position and rearranged her shawl.
‘Why don’t you tell Brenda your news, Hettie?’ His voice was quiet, his air suddenly distracted. ‘She’s bound to find out sooner or later.’
His sister’s frown deepened and she clutched at the neck of her shawl. ‘Very well, if Brenda promises not to make a fuss.’
‘Of course.’ Brenda nodded then waited anxiously.
‘It’s the real reason behind Father offering to take in Judith,’ Hettie confessed. ‘He made it clear that he wanted a girl who was old enough to do some of the housework and run around after me, knowing that I wasn’t going to get better.’
‘Not straight away, at any rate.’ Donald continued to stare at the rooks perched in the treetops in the copse beyond the barns.
‘Not ever,’ Hettie contradicted firmly. ‘I’m afraid the doctor has given me some bad news, Brenda. I have a tumour.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Here.’ She placed her hand over her stomach. ‘Apparently I’ve left it far too late for the hospital doctors to take it away.’
‘Are they sure?’ Brenda’s heart fluttered and she had to resist the urge to fly across the room to comfort Hettie; an action that she had the sense to know would be met with a rebuff.
‘Quite certain. But please don’t mention it to Les when you write. He has enough to cope with.’
Brenda nodded slowly.
‘You give me your word?’
‘I promise.’ She stood up, turned to the window and saw five or six rooks rise from the trees and fly high into the cloudless sky. Donald kept his back to her. Hettie sighed and adjusted her shawl.
‘I’m so very sorry,’ Brenda murmured, crossing the room and briefly resting a hand on the sick woman’s shoulder. ‘I’ll leave you in peace but is there anything you need from me before I go?’
Hettie flinched at her touch. ‘Nothing else, thank you. Only that you keep your promise.’
The pathos of Hettie’s request pierced Brenda’s heart. It didn’t add up. Why would a sister not want to tell her brother that she had only a short time to live? Surely Les would want the chance to say goodbye, but Hettie had demanded a vow of silence and Brenda couldn’t refuse. ‘Trust me, I won’t mention it,’ she whispered.
The coals in the grate shifted. One of Arnold’s dogs crept in through the half-open door and settled on the hearth rug. The rooks whirled then flew low over the house as Brenda left the building. She put on her goggles and gloves then kick-started her bike, carrying Hettie’s sad news with her along the quiet road to Burnside and beyond.