Far Across the Ocean

by Suzie Hull

Genres: World War I; Sagas

Synopsis

December 1913. Clara Thorton won't allow being jilted at the altar to squash her spirit. Against the wishes of her aunt and uncle, Clara decides to travel to Madagascar to learn more about the tragic shipwreck that took the lives of her missionary family and marked her forever. Clara is escorted abroad by Xavier Mourain, a handsome young merchant who works with her uncle. The two of them start off on the wrong foot, but Clara can't help but be drawn to the mysterious Frenchman who helps her unravel the mystery that has always haunted her. But as their love blossoms, war begins. And the world will never be the same again. For Clara, all the answers seem to lie far across the ocean. But some of them might be closer than she thinks . . .

Release date: November 17, 2022

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 336

Sample

Madagascar, Indian Ocean, 31 December, 1895

‘I want to go home,’ Clara Haycroft whimpered, as her mother tucked her up in the strange bed for a second night.

‘Shush now. Say your prayers and your sleep will be sweeter for it.’

‘Mama, I want to go home.’ She stuffed her thumb into her mouth, an old habit from her baby years, but she wasn’t a baby now. Just scared.

The ship they were on launched itself down the other side of a large wave, making her tummy feel like it was turning cartwheels. The lamp that hung from the low ceiling swung back and forth, casting shadows that danced and spun around the cabin.

Her mother bent over and kissed her brow. ‘Close your eyes, Clara. Do as you are told.’

Little Rose on the lower bunk coughed in her sleep, flinging her arms out over the sheet. Her white nightdress stood out in the lamplight, making her ghost-like.

Clara sniffed. Her mother inhaled the air. Rose coughed again.

‘Do you smell smoke?’ her mother asked, glancing at the door. The lamp still swung back and forth, but now there was an eerie haze in the tight confines of the bunk room.

‘I’m hot.’ Clara flung back her bed covers.

Mother unhooked the lamp. Clara watched her mother’s shoulders tighten as she hesitated, hand on the cabin door, listening perhaps to noises in the corridor, then her body snapped to full height before flinging it open.

Smoke billowed in.

‘Jump down, Clara. Hurry!’

Mother snatched sleeping Rose from the bottom bunk, only waiting for a second while she grabbed a school satchel which she pulled over her head and screeched at Clara to grab her shawl.

‘Ow! The floor is hot, Mama.’ Doors were clanging shut all the way up the corridor now. Frantic shouts from women and frightened screams of small children woken from sleep filled Clara’s head.

‘I want my papa,’ she wailed, clinging to the back of her mother’s skirts.

All around them were people pushing and shoving, an active group desperate to flee the interior of the steamship.

‘Papa!’ Clara cried out again.

The frantic movements of passengers of all nationalities pushed towards the small staircase and open door, where the night sky could be seen. The ship’s horn sounded, echoing through the ship, drowning out the frantic cries of people anxious to escape.

‘Emily!’ A deep voice boomed down the stairwell.

‘Papa,’ Clara sobbed now. Her papa was only yards ahead of her. She would be safe now. The crowd around them thinned as they broke out onto the wide deck. The night air was no longer salty, the acrid smell of smoke coming from inside unmistakable. Clara clutched her papa tight as all around them adults panicked, pushing towards the boats that were hastily being dropped down overboard. The wind whipped across the boat, pulling that burning smell towards them, and the boat lurched in the swell of the waves, making it harder for everyone to leave.

Papa was leaning over the side of the boat, helping Mama and baby Rose to clamber down. Clara held tight onto his coattails, tears streaming down her cheeks. This was scarier than everything they’d been through over the past month. The French soldiers invading the island, marching past their home. Her parents arguing, trying to decide whether to leave or not. The long slow, uncomfortable walk down from the city of Antananarivo to the coastal town of Tomatave. Hot and humid weather, slapping at mosquitoes and never sleeping in the same bed more than once. How she longed for her nice clean bed, with the chameleons on the ceiling, curling their long tongues around the insects that gathered there.

Rose was screeching now. Papa leant over and lifted Rose from Mama’s arms and tossed her towards the small boat in the water.

Clara gasped. Rose would be lost in the vast watery depths below! But no, she was caught safely by another lady. Now Mama was safely down.

‘Hurry, Clara, your turn now,’ Papa said, turning to find her.

Clara screeched like she’d never screeched before. Staggering towards her was a ball of fire. Could it be a person? The arms were outstretched, begging for help, for anything at all.

Clara’s heart pounded but her little legs moved liked pistons; she had to get out of his way. She sprang to the left before he fell, his hand snaking out to touch her white nightgown before he smashed to the deck.

‘Papa!’ she screamed. Flames licked up the right sleeve of her nightgown, where the blazing stranger had touched her. The orange and red tongues of fire crawled up closer and closer towards her face and hair, before her right plait ignited like a torch.

Arthur Haycroft did the only thing he could think of: he grabbed his small daughter and ran with her to the side of the boat before flinging her overboard into the frothing, churning water, knowing it would extinguish the flames, before throwing himself into the very same place.

‘Swim, Clara,’ he shouted as he surfaced. ‘Swim.’

A wave snatched the child away from her father, catapulting her into the oarlocks of the nearest boat, bashing the side of her head. She slumped, no longer fighting, no longer registering what was happening. Strong arms leant over the side of the boat and hauled her in, placing her gently into the bottom of the boat.

Arthur Haycroft spluttered and choked beside the boat, hands reaching out to pull him in too. Another

wave peaked and increased the gap between the wooden lifeboat and the ship.

High up above them, still on board, people screamed and begged for mercy from the flames and were now throwing themselves into the water below.

‘Row back, row back,’ came shouts from the lifeboat. ‘We’ll capsize.’

Haycroft reached out, taking strong strokes towards another woman who floundered in the water, encumbered by her heavy petticoats. The boat above them creaked and groaned, and flames now poured from a door and portholes well aft on the lower decks, fanned by the strong wind which had encumbered the ship on its journey north. The lifeboat pulled away from the ship, anxious occupants desperate to stay clear if the ship were to go down. Haycroft swam back to the lifeboat with the woman and passed her up to willing hands. More people screamed for help in the water. He could have given up then, taken the outstretched hands and saved himself too, but he didn’t. He locked eyes with the woman leaning over the edge of the lifeboat. ‘My child is Clara Haycroft,’ he shouted. ‘We’re returning to Bradford, in England. Don’t forget now.’

The face was serious. ‘Clara Haycroft, from Bradford. I’ll not forget.’

A quick nod and Haycroft kicked off again towards other poor souls drowning in the darkness.

Bradford, December 1913

Clara stood at the back of the small chapel, veil over her face and clutching a bouquet of silk flowers so tight the wire stems were pressing into her palms. The place where the groom should have been was completely empty.

She refused the seat offered to her, not wishing to risk crushing her wedding gown, made, as Aunt Alice had reminded her a thousand times, from silk generously gifted by Mr Lister himself. Indeed, when the roll of cream fabric had been delivered, Alice hadn’t ceased to comment on the generosity of their nearest neighbour. Clara had long since tried to be grateful; the effort to agree with Aunt Alice had worn her out.

Winter sunshine pierced the small window at the back of the chapel, casting shafts of light into the otherwise gloomy building. The dark grey stone cut from quarries not twenty miles from there did little to help lighten the interior of the place. Wedding guests from Bradford sat upright in all their finery; the women hidden underneath enormous hats filled with feathers and bows, the men’s hats sat neatly on their knees like pork pies waiting to be served up; and everyone tried not to fidget and gossip.

The heavy door opened, the squeaking from the rusting handle a sign for everyone to swivel their heads in unison to see who had arrived. A small boy edged nervously around the door, beetroot to the tips of his ears as all eyes turned to land on him. He held out an envelope. Uncle Charles stepped forward, hesitating as though the paper itself would burn his fingers. Someone, Clara could not recall who, tipped the lad and he fled, door lying open, steel-tipped boots clattering away down the road, the sound growing fainter as the assembled congregation held a universal breath. Uncle Charles tapped the envelope in his left hand several times before clearing his throat.

‘Shall I …’ he enquired. Tears blinding her, Clara nodded, chin high, focusing on the grand organ rather than the icy wind that now circulated around the stone floor. All ears strained in their direction as Charles ripped the letter open, scanned the few lines and then drew breath as he crumpled it up, shoving it unceremoniously into his coat pocket.

‘Let’s get you home, Clara, for we’ll not be needing a minister today.’

It was the sadness in his eyes that made Clara determined not to faint or collapse in public. Whatever bad fortune had befallen her, Uncle Charles didn’t deserve a scene, not in chapel of all places.

‘Come, Clara; come, Alice. Home.’

One on each arm, he directed them into the street. Seconds earlier, sun had poured down onto the community, but right on cue the clouds from the west rolled in, banking higher and darker until droplets of icy rain fell, leaving wet splodges on the gleaming motor car. The heavens opened as they set forth, streets and buildings lost in the sheet of rain and once they arrived at the gate of the villa, a maid ran forward with an umbrella. Clara was out of the car before she reached them, striding up the path, her dress, as Alice was always to remind her, ruined with the grey droplets.

The door closed softly behind her, the chill wind creeping around her ankles and nipping at her fingers and nose. The pain when it came was expected and welcome. She massaged her damaged right ear; the livid mark throbbed with the frigid air closing in around her. Aunt Alice stood a few paces behind her, peeling off her cream kid gloves and dropping them onto the outstretched arm of the maid and sighing. Clara deliberately faced herself in the overmantel mirror sitting above the polished dark oak chest in the hallway. She could feel Alice tut more than she could hear it. Carefully Clara pulled out her hat pin, letting her veil fall to the ground, exposing the full damage to her face that she lived with daily. Turning her face this way and that, she wanted to be sure this moment was etched into her consciousness. Large tears slipped out of the corners of her eyes.

‘Tea,’ Alice called to the maid still standing there.

Everyone knew. Even before they had gone out for the morning, the whispers had licked around the small community of Manningham.

‘Come, dear, come away. Staring at yourself won’t change anything now.’

‘Correct, Aunt. It won’t change how I look, nothing will ever undo my scarred face, but change I will, for I cannot live here with people looking at me like this.’

Spinning on her heel, Alice wrung her hands, despair etched into every line of her blemish-free face. ‘Time will ease this pain, just as it has all your past difficulties, I promise. You must ask God for strength to get through this.’

‘Why would I do that when I mean to do something myself?’

‘Pardon?’

‘I mean, Alice, that I have no intention of sitting at home any longer, hoping my friends or neighbours might call, or worrying that if I go out people will stare and whisper behind my back. Because they will. All of town will know that Robert Headley left me at the altar. He has broken off his engagement to me and is now setting his cap at Fanny Laycock. And they’ll all do the same thing you do, every time you see me, every second of the day. Yes, you do.’ Alice’s expression flickered through a myriad of emotions. ‘See, you’re doing it again. Pity – everyone pities me. That poor Thornton girl, such a lovely girl, shame about her scar though. Such a pity. That’s all I have in my life. Pity! Well, no more I tell you!’

‘Stop shouting, Clara!’

‘I’m not shouting!’

‘You are. You always do that when you get overexcited.’

‘I’ll make a plan. Nursing perhaps. I could do that.’

‘Charles, please come and speak sense to our Clara. She’s getting in a state. Tea!’ she called louder.

Uncle Charles, shoulders slumped, chewing on his pipe even though it was empty, looked unwilling to talk sense to Clara. ‘Come, Clara dear, sit beside me, please.’

More tears pricked her eyes. The disappointment was etched into every curve and uncomfortable hunch in his shoulders as he trailed his feet into the drawing room and sank into his favourite chair. He didn’t lift his eyes again to her, but silently patted the small, embroidered stool beside him, which her own mother had stitched all those years ago. It was hers by right, he’d always said, week in, week out, in those first few months when she’d arrived back to this house, injured, scarred, orphaned. Every time Uncle Charles patted that stool; it was his way of showing her she belonged. Not far across the ocean, but here, in Bradford. In dark, grey, sooty Bradford, with accents she found hard to discern, and strange phrases that she couldn’t make out, where she had to learn to adjust to her new situation. Neither of them spoke much to start with. Her uncle used to joke that Alice had more than enough words for all of them put together.

She trailed after him now, sinking down onto the worn seat, knowing before she’d even settled what Alice would say.

‘Not in that dress. You’ll ruin …’

Charles lifted his hand palm up towards his wife, and chewed harder on his pipe, her voice falling away. They all knew it mattered not a jot if it was ruined or not because it wouldn’t see another outing.

‘We could sell it,’ Alice said stoutly. ‘Or donate it,’ she added when Charles’ bushy brows forged together in the middle of his brow.

‘We’ll do nothing of the sort.’

Alice perched across from them; she always complained that Charles was too indulgent with Clara and had spoiled her when she was growing up. He in his turn would reply, ‘Well so be it, for I have to love this child twice as hard as other children. Once for me and once again for her mother.’ He reached now for Clara’s hands, sighing to find that her fingers were blue with cold. He rubbed her hands gently between his own, as Clara leant in against him, her blonde head resting against his arm. Across the room, Alice sighed in frustration.

‘Your lovely hair … Matty had it arranged so beautifully. No one in the congregation would have noticed … anything.’

Clara yanked primrose yellow silk flowers from where they’d been so cleverly hiding her misfortune and flung them at her aunt. Strands of hair loosened and itched her neck.

Sniffing and footsteps arrived down the hall in equal measure as the maid set the tea tray down.

‘Oh, do stop, Matty. Please do. Wash your face and blow your nose. We’ve enough to cope with as it is

without your sniffing.’ The maid bobbed a curtsey and flung a sympathetic glance at Clara and it was this that made her tears flow more than anything else.

Alice poured the tea, forcing a cup on Clara whether she wanted it or not and Charles finished a whiskey and then another as the rain battered down outside. The three of them slumped into a semi-conscious stupor, each one caught up in his or her own thoughts. The coal in the hearth hissed and sparked, occasionally tumbling forward where it spilt, the rich orange heart of it brightening up the otherwise gloomy interior. Dark Turkish carpets and the dull pine-green velvet chair were only lifted from obscurity by the needlepoint cushions which Clara had painstakingly embroidered. Parrots, green jungle trees and exotic flowers covered the cushion, with splashes of sky blue and cream to lighten them. Even the aspidistra in the polished copper urn managed to look gloomy.

‘What did he say in the note, Uncle?’ Clara broke the silence.

‘Will it help to see his actual words, or are you determined to punish yourself? For the fault can never be yours.’ Patting her arm, he continued. ‘The fault is mine. I was blind to his weakness. We were taken in by him, me especially. The man was no gentleman.’

She raised her face towards him. ‘I must see it. Just so there can be no doubt.’

‘He’s not coming. You know that,’ Alice scolded.

A quick shake of the head at Alice, and Clara looked her uncle in the eye again. ‘I’m not foolish enough to get my hopes up or be inclined to read things into his words which aren’t there. I just want to see, in plain language, how he distanced himself from me. I must see what cruel words he has abused me with.’

‘Why must you torture yourself, child?’

‘Like I said, Uncle, I must be sure that if I ever have the misfortune to meet him again, I know exactly what words he used, and then I shall be glad to find a suitable retort.’

‘Clara! My dear, we have brought you up to be forgiving, haven’t we? I do not like this talk at all.’

Clara didn’t shift her gaze for a second. ‘Please, Uncle.’ Reluctantly he pulled the crumpled page from his inside pocket and offered it to his niece.

I dearly beg your pardon, but regrettably, despite the fine nature your niece possesses, it is not enough for me to overlook the other disadvantages. I am most heartily sorry and understand that my position in your company will not now go ahead. I shall leave directly.

‘My disadvantages? That’s what he calls it. Well, that’s a new way of expressing it.’

‘Don’t, Clara. It won’t do any good.’

‘I have a fine nature, I’m glad to hear. Yet not once does he mention love, though he is quick to remember his job.’

‘It is my fault, my dear. I thought he would be suitable.’

‘Please. The man didn’t love me, that much is obvious. He is also out of a job and I’m not sorry. I was taken in as much as you; I see now I was merely a means to acquire a better life until he realised he couldn’t go through with it. I am hideous, you see.’

Alice sobbed silently into her handkerchief, rocking back and forth on the horse-hair sofa so fast Clara felt sure the stuffing would explode.

‘I was the fool, for I mistook false talk for love. I will not be taken in again.’

The sound of a door slamming outside drew a withering glance from Alice. ‘Visitors, no doubt. My sister, I am sure, coming to see what help she might be in our time of trouble.’

‘Please no, Uncle, Aunt. Please. I cannot bear having people come to wring their hands and pity me. And don’t tell me to be polite. Of all days, today I believe I should be allowed to be impolite.’ She got up to leave, but the door opened before she could make her escape.

‘Lawrence.’

‘I came,’ he started, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I know of nothing else except that I am heartbroken on your behalf, Clara.’

‘Do not trouble yourself, cousin, because right this minute I realised I never loved him as I thought. We were both mistaken. My heart might be broken but it is not from love, or lack of it, but because of self-loathing for myself that I was taken in so easily by a charlatan who flattered me and spent time with me and who obviously found my uncle’s mills to be a far superior prospect than myself. So, please, do not waste tears on my broken love life, for I never want to hear of it again. I cannot stay in Bradford and have everyone pity me even more than usual. I must make a plan. That’s something you could help me with.’

Her harsh words fell onto shocked spectators, as more extended family were ushered in behind her cousin. Ladies pressed delicate lace handkerchiefs to their mouths, eyes filling with tears; elderly gentlemen with white bushy sideburns cleared their throats and looked down at their feet.

‘It’s a rum do, make no mistake,’ someone said.

Clara, furious in the middle of the room, lifted her arms to say something more, then dropped them, the crumpled page fluttering from her weak hand. Lawrence retrieved it.

‘It is a wake, isn’t it?’ she cried. ‘It is as though this is a funeral and you have all come to shake my hand and bring me assurances of your prayers and gracious thoughts. Well, I won’t have it. I won’t!’ Grabbing the small bell that sat on the side table, she summoned Matty vigorously. The maid’s anxious face peered out from behind the last of the sincere well-wishers who had arrived, her arms full of their wraps and gloves.

‘My coat please, Matty. I’m going out!’

‘Clara, please, of course you’re not. Where will you go? It’s not a good idea. Matty, get the smelling salts,’ Alice called.

‘What about a doctor? Perhaps she needs a sedative.’

‘I do not need a sedative. I’m angry, don’t you understand? And hurt! And I want to express it and not be forever shushed and kept hidden in the corner. I will go out.’

‘Oh please, no, dear. Not in that dress anyhow – people will stare. And your hair needs to be fixed. Please!’ Alice begged.

‘I don’t want to be covered up, Alice. I want to live my life however I choose it. I want to do something, I want to travel, to see the world, to be in charge of my life. God gave me a brain, and I refuse to sit quietly at home, waiting for a man to decide I don’t repulse him so much that he could bring himself to marry me. I will not be pitied.’

Matty dumped the visitors’ belongings and held out a cream wool coat tipped with smart gold braiding, made in their own mill not three miles away.

‘Hurry, Matty. I need a hat. I need to escape,’ she whispered to the maid.

Lawrence stepped forward. ‘I’ll take you. We’ll go for a drive somewhere.’

Clara glanced briefly at Charles before Lawrence escorted her out of the front door and down the narrow path towards his motor car. She exhaled only when Lawrence had the engine running and there were no further protestations from the house concerning her departure.

‘Breathe,’ Lawrence commanded her. ‘The worst is over. We have escaped and every action you take now will be a step further away from what happened to you earlier. It’s in the past now.’

‘Where are we going?’ Lawrence asked.

‘I don’t know. I just want to get away.’

Lawrence said nothing as he manoeuvred the car down the drive. They turned left and set off out of the city. Dark stone walls ran either side of the lane, and soot-darkened houses stood in perfect symmetry behind the walls. The large villas of Manningham gave way to semi-detached homes, then gaps in the fields, waiting to be built on, until they reached Shipley. They stopped at a crossroads and turned left again, driving out on High Bank Lane, where the heavy rolling skies met the smudge of the sombre evergreen copse of trees. What sheep there were clung tight to the edges of the fields, the walls giving them at least some shelter from the miserable weather. Lawrence continued, past small corner shops and farmhouses and a chapel, before turning once more and dropping back down towards the city. Clara roused herself, hands leaping to the door handle.

‘Shush now, we’re not going home,’ he soothed. ‘It’s a nasty old day to be out. I thought about finding a hotel and sitting in front of a warm fire. I know you want to get away, but this dirty weather is no comfort now, is it?’

Nodding her head a fraction, she kept her face turned away from him, mopping the last of her tears from her cheeks, breathing heavily in a bid to get herself back in control of her emotions. If the day had been brighter and he’d stopped too close to a lake, she couldn’t tell if her body might have fallen in of its own accord, dragging her to the murky depths far beneath the surface. Just as well the rain was pelting down the windscreen and Lawrence was forced to bring her into town.

The further they drove into the centre of Bradford, the slower the motor crawled. Workmen, heads bent against the icy rain, leant low inside their coats, caps pulled down as far as was possible. The trams were running though, and men and women with small children in tow sprinted down the street to catch one.

Reaching over, Lawrence squeezed her hand. Even with gloves on, they were frozen. ‘Could you eat something? It would help warm you up.’

‘Hmm,’ she replied. To answer any more required a decision, and right now her brain was so jumbled she could barely think. One minute her life had been mapped out. Right this second, she would have been married and facing her first night as a married woman. In her imagination she had thought, nay, expected to have children soon, and now it had been ripped from her, brutally and shamefully so. She was mortified that Robert had left her standing at the altar. Not even calling it off last week. How could she face people again? The shame was so hard to bear.

‘We’re here, Clara. Will you manage, do you think?’ Through eyes blurred with fresh unshed tears, she looked at the front of the hotel. Three steps rising from the pavement, and an interior which glowed warm, the doorman sprinted out from under the small awning protecting him from the worst of the rain and opened her door. Head down, avoiding eye contact, she climbed out, umbrella shielding her, as she was escorted up the steps and through the large doors where she waited for her cousin. Her cream dress was crushed now, creased from the journey and from squatting earlier on the stool next to the reassuringly comfortable arm of Uncle Charles. Her future might have shattered today, but her uncle would never change.

Avoiding eye contact with those milling around her, she perched in an upholstered armchair, stuffed to the gills and trimmed with a two-toned twisted silk cord that she recognised. Uncle Charles didn’t want her working in the mill, but he had no qualms about her and Aunt Alice visiting and looking in on his workers. She found the floor of the mill restful, despite the noise of the machines churning at top speed, as she’d realised years back when she’d been brought for the first time, perched up in her uncle’s arms. Losing most of her hearing in one ear did at least have its advantages; she’d only had to cup one hand over the other ear to help muffle the sound.

‘Shall we?’ Lawrence asked, as he stopped in front of her, droplets of water still visible on his dark suit. He pulled his silk scarf from around his neck and peeled his driving gloves off. A waitress waited to take them from him as Lawrence enquired about a more private area for them to take some tea.

‘Certainly, Mr Webster, follow me please.’

Lawrence held out his hand to help Clara up. Her eyes were still downcast, but her cheeks had pinked up again with the heat of the fire.

They were shown through two sets of double doors, much further from the front door, to another fireplace with a table placed invitingly in front of it. The other few occupants in the dining room were seated at the windows, looking out onto the road outside. Only one turned his head to look in their direction. A well-dressed young man with a silk cravat the colour of stewed plums, and skin that reminded her of sun-soaked shores, far away from Bradford. The stubble on his chin looked as though he hadn’t shaved for three days and he had the darkest eyes Clara had ever seen. He nodded in her direction. Embarrassed, Clara dropped her own eyes straight to her crumpled wedding dress and pretended to examine her clasped hands.

Lawrence ordered afternoon tea for them as they both sank back gratefully into their armchairs. He handed over his clean pocket handkerchief so Clara could dab her eyes once more.

‘I need a plan, Lawrence. Before I go home. You will help me, won’t you?’ Her eyes bored into his, beseeching him for assistance.

‘Marry me, Clara. There’s a plan.’

She laughed, the first effort since the public shaming of earlier that had given her any sense of release. ‘Lawrence, you are perfectly sweet, but perfectly impossible. You know I can’t.’

Her cousin’s dark eyes fell, and the corners of his mouth drooped. ‘Please, Clara. I can’t think of anyone I like more or get on with so well as you. Please.’ Grabbing her hand, he held her small fragile one within his strong, capable one. His fingers were long and slender, with thick smoothed nails and dark silky hairs that matched his dark hair that insisted on falling over his forehead, no matter how many times he slicked it back.

‘You have kind eyes and a kind heart, but I cannot marry you,’ she said, reluctantly pulling her hand away from his. He was a dear friend, one who had welcomed her right from the start when she’d arrived in the city as a young girl, escorted home by a stranger. The scars on her face and body had still been fresh and raw, but the scars. . .