Penhaligon's Attic

Book 1: Penhaligon Saga

by Terri Nixon

Genres: Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

1910. Anna Garvey arrives in Caernoweth, Cornwall, with her daughter and a secret. Having come from Ireland to take up an inheritance of the local pub, she and her 18-year-old daughter, Mairead, are initially viewed with suspicion by the close-knit community. Anna soon becomes acquainted with Freya Penhaligon, a vulnerable girl struggling to keep her family business afloat in the wake of her grandmother's death, and starts to gain the trust of the locals.

As their friendship deepens and Freya is brought out of her shell by the clever and lively Mairead, even Freya's protective father, Matthew, begins to thaw. But when a part of Anna's past she'd long tried to escape turns up in the town, she is forced to confront the life she left behind - for her sake and her daughter's, too....

Release date: December 1, 2016

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 400

Sample

The weather was still winter-nasty. Clouds were building, almost purple in places, and the air was damp and heavy, with a stiff, chilly breeze that snapped at the hedgerows. The hill from beach to home seemed steeper than ever today, but Freya was smiling as she shifted her grip on the bucket, and ignored the rub of sand between her fingers; what did a little reddened skin matter when there was a birthday tea waiting?

Although it was nice to be special for the day at school, Saturday birthdays were so much more fun, and this one had been the best of days from the start. Papá had walked with her down to the sea after breakfast, as he usually did on Saturdays, but today his friends had greeted her as if she were already an adult: ‘Good morning, Miss Pen’aligon!’ ‘Happiest of birthdays to you!’ and ‘Mornin’, my lady,’ and bowing and smiling… It was lovely to be eight years old, and she shook her head pityingly for her seven-year-old self; such a baby, and she’d never realised it. Perhaps now she was even old enough to be a big sister, at last; her biggest wish might come true after all.

She huffed as she swapped her bucket from hand to hand. Wet fingers slipped on the handle, but once her grip was secure once more she turned her face towards the cottage, and made her legs go faster. Rare treats awaited, Papá had gone home early especially, although he’d pretended it was for something else. He might even have written her a new story for bedtime. That would be the best gift of all. And tomorrow the beach would be waiting, always waiting; each wave newly made and bringing any number of treasures tumbling onto the shore. Or none. That was the joy of it, to be the first to know.

She paid a visit to the privy before going into the house, and put the bucket against the door where she could look at it while she sat. Today’s treasures were still covered in sand, and it looked as if something was moving in there too, but it was hard to tell with all the sliding and shifting of shell and stone, weed and wood. She must get a bigger bucket… but then how would she carry it? She frowned, kicking her dangling feet against the wooden front of the privy. Perhaps if she collected everything she wanted into a bag she could wear over her shoulder, instead? Or asked Papá’s friend Mr Fry if he would look after it until Papá could bring it home each day?

She was still musing on this as she straightened her skirts over her chilled legs, grateful for the thick material even if it was damp. As she threw a handful of ash down the hole in the seat she had made up her mind to speak to Mr Fry, and by the time she reached the back door, and raised her hand to the latch, she had disregarded the problem and her thoughts moved forward to the tea that awaited just beyond. She heard voices, and habit froze her into a listening pose while she worked out which of the more troubling moods had taken her parents today. It took no more than a few seconds to find out.

‘… was right,’ Papá was saying, his voice low and tight, as if he was barely controlling his temper. Mama was the fiery one, but when Papá was roused he could be frightening too. ‘I should never have re-named the Julia for you.’

‘I never told you to!’ Mama flashed back. Her accent always came out stronger when she was angry. If Freya closed her eyes she could imagine a lady like the ones in Granny Grace’s Spanish books: dark-eyed beauties in bright colours, smiling… but there was no smile in Mama’s voice now. ‘I never told you to do that, Matthew! You cannot blame me for what has happened.’

‘I did it because of you!’

‘Because you thought it would make me love you again?’

There was a silence and Freya held her breath. When Papá spoke again his voice was just tired. ‘I didn’t realise you’d stopped.’

‘I…’ Mama hesitated. ‘I was so young. But I did love you. I still do.’

‘But you want more.’

‘We deserve more, Matthew! Not just Freya and me, but you too… where are you going?’

Freya’s eyes widened and she picked up her bucket again, preparing to hide around the corner if she heard Papá coming to the door.

‘To the Tinner’s.’

‘No! Not today! Freya will be home soon, and you will not spoil her birthday.’

‘No,’ Papá said, his voice dropping. ‘Of course not. I was forgetting.’

Freya readied herself anyway, taking a step back just in case.

‘Did you finish the story?’ Mama wanted to know, and Freya was relieved, though not surprised, at the sudden change in her tone; everyone had learned to sway with the wind of her moods.

‘Yes,’ Papá said, ‘I think she’ll like it.’

Freya’s heart settled a little; whenever Papá wrote something for her it meant he was happy, or at the very least not in a black despair. Some of his tales were hard to follow; filled with incredible creatures and troubled children, but the children always triumphed, and their adventures left her breathless. She hoped her special birthday tale would be a sea-story, those were always the best.

The arguing had fallen silent now; and Freya decided it was time to let them know she was home, so she pushed open the door. The smell of baking filled her nostrils, and she ignored the strained looks on her parents’ faces, and beamed at them both. ‘Cakes! Are they for me?’

‘Of course for you, mi tesoro!’ Mama stooped to hug her, heedless of her wet coat and her sandy hands and face. ‘But first you must clean yourself, and Papá will give you his gift. Then the cakes will be cooled enough for you to eat.’

‘Well,’ Papá said, ‘the important thing is what have you brought back for tea?’ He examined the contents of the bucket, making slurping noises and licking his lips, which made Mama laugh, and the last of the tension in the room drained away.

Freya ran upstairs to change into dry clothes, shivering at the low rumble of thunder that rolled around the valley, trapped by the steep fields on either side. Thank goodness Papá was home tonight, not putting to sea in the Isabel. As she changed she pondered on what she’d heard; it was no secret that his boat was now named for Mama, but Freya had forgotten it had ever been anything else. Now she remembered it had once been Julia. She’d heard the sad story of Papá’s little sister, who had died as a child from a simple chill… Thunder sounded again, and Freya swallowed hard and removed her wet clothes faster. Changing the name of a boat was supposed to be a bad thing, even she knew that, but could it really be why Papá’s catch was so low? Surely the fish didn’t know he’d changed the name, and suddenly learned how to avoid his nets? Could fish even tell which nets belonged to which boat? They couldn’t read, anyway.

No. It was what her Granny Grace would call ‘a complete nonsense’. And now there were happier things to think on: Papá had written her a story, and that cost nothing so she needn’t feel bad about it. And Mama’s cakes… Freya’s mouth watered at the thought of them.

Downstairs again, dressed in rough but warm and dry clothing, Freya was glad to see her parents looking at one another without scowling.

‘There you are.’ Papá’s fingers twitched over the cooling rack. ‘You’re just in time. You’d better hurry up, else I’ll eat them all myself.’

Freya took one and bit into it. The warm sponge crumbled on her lips, and she made a wordless sound of delight at the rush of sweetness and the tang of the hidden fruit. Her mother’s face softened, and she heard her father’s low chuckle behind her, and it was one of those perfect moments when she noticed all the good things around her. The kitchen was warm from cooking, and the smell of the fruity cakes still hung in the air, the sound of the rain just made it all seem cosier instead of making her shiver. Just this once it was nice to be the only child in the house; brothers and sisters might have stolen this moment.

‘I have a gift for you,’ Papá said.

‘A story!’ Freya forgot she wasn’t supposed to know, but it didn’t matter now.

He shook his head. ‘Something else.’ He raised an eyebrow as her face fell. ‘Don’t you want a birthday present? I can give it to someone —’

‘Of course I do!’ Freya spluttered bits of cake over her hand, and Mama clicked her tongue and gestured her over so she could clean her up. ‘What is it? Liquorice?’ Her favourite.

‘No. Granny Grace and Grandpa have some of that for you though. Wait here a moment.’

While Mama wiped sticky fruit from Freya’s mouth, Papá went into the pantry and came back with a large wooden box, which he placed on the table. Freya brushed away the last of the crumbs on her shirt-front, her eyes wide and fixed on the box, and then lifted the lid. Inside nestled a wooden boat – a Cornish lugger just like the Isabel, but with no name yet on its polished side.

‘What do you think?’ He sounded suddenly anxious, and Freya turned and wrapped her arms around him. She felt his hands shaking on her shoulders, as he returned her embrace. ‘Does that mean you like it?’

‘Yes!’ She returned to the box, and carefully lifted the boat out and put it on the table where she could see all over it. It must have taken him months to make, since he was so rarely home; every detail was perfect. She couldn’t wait to tell Juliet all about it in school on Monday. ‘What’s its name?’

‘Her name,’ he said. ‘And it’s whatever you want it to be.’

Freya pulled a face. ‘Why does it have to be a girl boat?’

‘Most are, it’s good luck. So what will you call her?’

‘I don’t know yet.’ With the echoes of their argument about re-naming the Isabel in her mind, Freya was determined to choose wisely. She brushed her finger over the polished wood, and peered more closely at the hand-stitched sails. ‘Mama, did you make these?’

‘No, that was your Grandmama Grace.’

Freya hoped she had imagined the tightening in her mother’s voice. ‘She can’t make cakes as good as you can though.’

‘As well as,’ Papá corrected.

‘As well as. Can I have another one?’

Mama smiled, then. ‘Supper first, and then one more. And then you must go to bed.’

‘But aren’t I allowed to stay up later now I’m eight?’ Freya made her eyes very wide; Mama usually found it hard to refuse her when she did that.

Mama laughed. ‘Ah, but tomorrow you will not sleep later than you did when you were seven, will you? You will be out of bed just as early.’

‘But if I promise to try?’

She saw her parents exchange a glance, then Mama shrugged. ‘Tonight only, since it is your special day, and Sunday tomorrow. You may stay up until nine o’clock, and not one minute later.’

Freya grinned. ‘I’m going to wash my treasures, and dry them, and put them away, and eat my supper, and play with my boat, and —’

‘You will have time for half that,’ Papá pointed out. ‘It’s already almost eight o’clock.’

‘Supper,’ Mama said firmly. ‘Sit now, and we will think about washing your treasures after we have eaten. Matthew, take the boat off the table and set the places.’

Supper was happy enough; there was no sliding back into those harsh voices and dark looks, and if Papá was worried about money, and Mama was cross with him for blaming her, they didn’t show any of it. After Freya had helped clear the plates away, she and Papá emptied out her bucket and sorted through what she’d brought back. She’d been right, something had been moving in there; as she lifted one of the bigger stones off the pile a tiny crab came scuttling out.

Mama, passing the table with a jug of water, shuddered. ‘Take that thing away!’

Papá winked at Freya and picked up the crab, and put it back in the bucket along with the stone and some seaweed for it to hide under. ‘We’ll take it back down to the beach tomorrow,’ he promised. ‘Now, you wash your hands and I’ll go and find my book. I have a new story for you.’

‘But I haven’t played with my boat,’ Freya protested. ‘Please, Papá?’

‘It’s late, and anyway you can’t play with her until you’ve named her.’

‘I’ll think of a name while I’m in bed,’ Freya said. ‘And then tomorrow, can I take her to the beach?’

‘We’ll see. Now go on, see you’re clean and ready for bed when I get there.’

‘Goodnight, Mama.’ Freya picked up her boat, so she could look at it and find a name after Papá’s story was over. ‘Will you come to tuck me in?’

‘After the story,’ Mama promised. ‘I must put your clothes to dry for tomorrow. And clean the rest of the plates. And the table needs to be scrubbed now you have emptied sand all over it.’ Something about her tone made Freya look at her again, and she was certain she saw a glimmer of tears in Mama’s beautiful dark eyes.

‘I’m sorry we made a mess,’ she stammered, her heart sinking. ‘You work so hard.’

‘We all do.’ Mama sniffed and shook her hair back, making an effort to look cheerful. She smiled at Freya, but the smile slipped when she looked at Papá. ‘I chose this life, after all.’

‘You did,’ he said tightly. ‘And we’re all together. That much we can be thankful for, can’t we?’

 

Freya was dutifully pulling the covers to her chin when her Papá came into her bedroom, his journal in his hands. She felt the anticipation like a tingle in her tummy, and couldn’t help bouncing on the bed a bit as she waited for him to settle into the chair next to her. Like a seven-year-old. She stopped quickly at that thought, but not before she had seen the smile tug at Papá’s mouth.

‘This story is called The Scarecrow and the Whale,’ he said, and when he opened his journal Freya could see lines and lines of close-packed writing, each one of those words written just for her, and it gave her a feeling of such happiness she wanted to hug him again. But she sat quietly and closed her eyes, and Papá began.

His voice was soothing and low as he read, and Freya left her room and went with her favourite group of children to a faraway island, where the whales played offshore and the mysterious Scarecrow made his appearance; a tall figure, gaunt and unsmiling, reading poetry printed in white on a bolt of black cloth. Freya worked with the children to build a fortress against the Scarecrow, helped them uncover the secret hidden in the poetry, but before she learned what role the whale was to play, Papá closed his journal.

‘We’ve been longer than I promised your mama.’ He sounded as regretful as Freya felt.

‘Will we finish it tomorrow?’ She was disappointed, but her voice was soft with fast-approaching sleep.

‘Not tomorrow. I’m going out with Mr Fry and his crew.’

‘But why?’ Wide awake again now, Freya sat up straight. ‘It’s Sunday! Besides, you have your own boat.’

‘A boat which isn’t making any money,’ Papá reminded her. ‘And I know it’s Sunday, but Roland – Mr Fry – has offered me a place on his night catch. Ned Scoble’s been taken ill again. That’ll mean money to buy you a bigger bucket,’ he added, dropping his voice as if they shared a secret, ‘so you can find a bigger crab to frighten your mama with.’

But Freya didn’t smile back. ‘I’m sorry I made a mess.’

‘She wasn’t cross about that.’ Papá leaned forward to kiss her on the forehead. ‘She just gets homesick sometimes, and misses her family. That doesn’t mean she’s not glad she’s here with us. But, well, they have more money than we do, and I think your mama feels a little let down by the way things have been going…’

He seemed to catch himself then, perhaps he thought he shouldn’t be telling her these things. But she wanted to hear them, and now she was older she was starting to understand why, more and more often, Mama’s pretty face became clouded and sad. It sounded as though there was nothing she could do to help though, at least until she was big enough to leave school, and get a job gutting and scaling with the other girls.

Echoing the darker direction her thoughts had taken, the thunder growled outside the window once more and a splatter of rain hit the glass. Papá looked up, as if he could see through the curtains to the night beyond, and then smiled at her again.

‘Don’t worry about your ma, she’ll be happier again when the spring comes. You know how she loves the sun. The catch will rise again, and we’ll have money to buy nice things.’

Freya nodded, happy again. ‘Will I see you in the morning, before you go?’

‘I’ll be leaving later than usual, so I’ll take you to the beach,’ he said. ‘We can let Mama’s new friend back into the salt water where he wants to be.’

He leaned over and turned the lamp to its lowest, leaving a faint glow which he would extinguish later, after she was asleep. By its dim light she could just make out the shape of the new boat on her dresser. She closed her eyes and wondered if she would dream its – her – name.

Papá kissed her again. ‘Goodnight, Lady Penhaligon,’ he whispered, and Freya smiled. No dreams needed.

 

The morning brought high winds, and Freya was forbidden to go to the beach after all. The roof of Hawthorn Cottage was rattling where the slates had loosened, and Mama kept glancing at the ceiling, as if she could work out where Papá would need to climb. She wanted him to stay home and fix it today, but he couldn’t miss a chance to work, especially a night catch, where he would take on Ned Scoble’s role as skipper. He left after a late breakfast of bread and dripping, taking Freya’s bucket as promised.

Freya watched Mama’s eyes following him through the small yard and out onto the lane. With his hat pulled down over his ears, and his collar up, he might have been anyone but for the way he carried himself; Freya would recognise that easy, long-striding walk anywhere. Her bucket looked so small in his large hands, and she felt again the disappointment of not carrying it herself. She didn’t even mind running to keep up, as long as it was towards the sea. Her friends would be there; not one of them her own age, and all busy, but they always had time to say good day, and ask what she’d found.

‘Come away from the window now,’ Mama said. ‘If the weather clears you may go down this afternoon. But now we have work to do.’

‘Aren’t we going to chapel today?’

‘No. There is too much to do. The water is already on the fire, you can fetch the tub from the outhouse.’

Freya sighed, but waited until Papá had passed out of sight before turning away from the window. She obediently fetched the big tin tub, and scrubbed it clean ready for the water Mama was heating. Then she scrubbed the big laundry stick too, and sat down with the suet grater to grate blue, mottled soap into the water. If only it were still her birthday! But she supposed Mama always worked on her birthday, so next year Freya decided she would do the same, it wasn’t fair otherwise. It would be the grown-up thing to do.

Idly stirring the soap into the water, Freya pondered again the question of boats’ names. She thought of Mr Fry’s boat, the Pride of Porthstennack. That wasn’t a girl’s name. Or perhaps it was ‘bride’, and not ‘pride’; she’d never taken any notice of the words painted on its side. Whatever it was called, it would have put out to sea by now, and Papá would be working alongside all the others. It wasn’t the same as running his own boat, but at least Mr Fry was giving him a chance, and perhaps that would mean Papá wouldn’t want to drink so much. It was puzzling; the less money he had, the more he wanted to spend it in the Tin Streamer’s Arms up at Caernoweth. That didn’t make any sense at all, as far as Freya could see, and just upset Mama even more.

Later, as she worked the small, upright mangle in the outhouse, Freya kept looking hopefully out at the sky. It wasn’t clearing, in fact it was getting worse. The outhouse door repeatedly banged closed so she pushed it as far open as it would go, and wedged a rock against it. Five minutes later the rock slid away and the door slammed shut again. Standing in the dark with her heart hammering, Freya felt the first tremor of real fear for her father. She went in search of her mother, who was stripping the sheets from hers and Papá’s bed.

‘Can I go to the beach?’

Mama shook her head. ‘Everyone is too busy to watch out for you, and the rain is coming down harder now. Besides,’ she straightened, and nodded to where Freya’s coat was spread to dry on a rack. ‘You’ve nothing to wear.’

‘Will he be safe?’

‘Of course he will, mi tesoro,’ Mama said, more gently. ‘Mr Fry is sensible, he would not let his skipper put to sea if he thought it was dangerous, and in any case Papá would soon turn back if things got worse.’ She pulled the eiderdown straight, and adopted a brisker tone. ‘Now listen. Tonight Grandmama Grace will be coming to stay with you. I’m going to meet a friend in Plymouth. She is all the way from London, and only staying a day or two. I’ll return in the morning, but you will already be at school so I shall see you at dinnertime.’

Freya couldn’t remember hearing about this friend, but that was no surprise; she often got bored when grown-ups were talking. ‘Does Papá know you won’t be here when he gets home?’

‘I told him,’ Mama said shortly, ‘but whether or not he remembers, I cannot say.’

 

Granny Grace arrived just before teatime. She was Papá’s mother, and had come from money a couple of generations ago, so she spoke almost like a toff but she had a tough streak in her that came out now and again – especially with Grandpa Robert. Her manner of speech had come down through Papá too; he didn’t sound like most of the other fishermen. Freya was actually pleased whenever other children poked fun at her for talking the same as him, but when they saw their teasing was having the opposite effect to the one they hoped for, they soon stopped bothering with it.

Granny put her overnight bag in Mama and Papá’s room, and saw Mama off with a wave. As soon as the door was closed, shutting out the wind that rattled the cupboard doors, she planted her stick firmly between her feet and leaned on it.

‘Now then, Miss Freya, let’s get the important matters out of the way.’ She reached into her pocket and withdrew a paper bag. ‘Liquorice, for the birthday girl!’

‘Thank you!’ Freya dipped into the bag and withdrew a piece of the sticky black sweet.

‘Do you like your boat?’ Granny asked.

‘Oh yes, I love it… her! Have you seen her with the sails on?’

‘I have. Your pa showed it to me when it was all put together.’

Freya frowned. ‘Mama doesn’t like me to call him pa.’

‘Well Mama’s…’ Granny cleared her throat. ‘It’s not their way, where she comes from. But he’s a Cornishman, and you’re a true Cornish maid, for all you’ve got your mother’s looks.’

‘Have I?’ Freya couldn’t help but be pleased with that. Mama was like a painting, with her tiny waist and her clear skin, and her clothes fit her so well and made her look like a lady even though she was just a fisherman’s wife.

‘So, what’s the name you’ve chosen?’ Granny prompted.

‘She’s the Lady Penhaligon.’

Granny smiled. ‘Well if that isn’t perfect, I don’t know what is. Grandpa Robert will paint the name on her for you, if you bring her up to the shop.’ She looked out at the darkening night. ‘Tomorrow will be soon enough for that, I think. You can come back with me after breakfast.’

‘Granny?’

‘Yes?’ She was already bustling about the kitchen, and it was clear she was actually glad Mama had gone out and left her in charge.

‘Why don’t Papá’s friends visit us now? They’re nice to me at the beach, but they never come here no more.’

‘Any more,’ Granny corrected absently as she put two plates on the table. She didn’t answer for a moment, but Freya waited and at last Granny sighed. ‘Last year there was an accident, a bad one, you must have heard about it?’

‘Mr Fry’s accident?’

‘Yes, that one. You remember his son, that used to be your pa’s best friend?’

‘James. I don’t remember him, but I’ve heard Mama and Papá talk about him sometimes.’ Those conversations had usually been short and sharp; James and Papá had stopped being friends a good while ago now.

Granny Grace nodded. ‘Well, he was never a natural fisherman really, not like your pa. He left to become a stone mason’s apprentice. Anyway, the Isabel wasn’t doing too well, so Roland offered your pa James’s place on the Cousin Edith. That was Mr Fry’s other boat he had at the time, the mackerel seine boat. He hasn’t got it anymore.’

‘What happened?’

‘Do you know those young lads they take out, the ones that swing the minices into the water to scare the fish into the nets?’

‘Is that the rocks, on ropes?’

‘That’s the ones. Well one of the boys never heard Mr Fry shout for them to stop, so your pa went over to him. But he tripped, or… stumbled somehow, right into the boy.’

‘Did the boy fall in?’

‘No, but the minice came around into the boat instead of into the water. Hit Mr Fry square on the knee and almost cost him his livelihood, as well as his life. As it was he had to sell the Cousin Edith, and came close to having to sell his cottage, too. It was only thanks to his crew, and the people he’s helped over the years repaying his kindnesses, that he’s kept his home and his trawler.’

Freya swallowed, feeling a little bit ill at the thought. Her own knees seemed to shrivel. ‘I didn’t know he was so badly hurt.’

‘It was a dreadful business,’ Granny Grace said. ‘Doctor thought he was going to lose the leg, but he was lucky. He can walk again, with a stick, but he’s still not right and can’t work.

Dismay aside, Freya was still puzzled. ‘But he still likes Papá, he’s asked him to go out on his big boat tonight because Mr Scoble’s not very well.’

‘He’s always had a soft spot for your pa. Always prepared to give him a chance. But the crew thought what happened was your pa’s fault.’

‘And was it?’

‘No!’ Granny pursed her lips and picked up the bread knife, then she shrugged. ‘Well, maybe. And even if it wasn’t completely his fault, trust is easy lost when men depend on each other.’

Freya took this in, feeling very grown-up now she knew a little bit more. ‘Granny?’

‘Yes?’

‘Was Papá drunk?’

Granny didn’t answer, but she began slicing bread with more vigour than usual. Freya decided it was best not to press for an answer, but she didn’t think she needed to anyway.

‘Granny?’

A heavy sigh. ‘Yes?’

‘When will Papá be home?’

‘When the work’s done. And before you ask, the work’ll be done when it’s done.’

 

Later Freya lay in bed, listening to the sounds of Granny Grace getting ready for sleep. Her footsteps along the creaking hallway were soothing, and even the door closing on Mama and Papá’s room was a comforting sound – unlike the rain hitting the window, and the rising shriek of the wind. She looked over at the Lady Penhaligon, sitting safe and dry on the dresser, and tried not to think of Papá out there on the wild seas. Maybe he’d be on the beach by now though, unloading the catch, or separating the nets for mending from the ones that would survive another trip out.

She dozed, and drifted, remembering the Scarecrow and his poetry, and the children who battled him to escape the island. What could the whale possibly do? Maybe he would swim close enough to the island’s shores for one of the children to swim to. They could climb on its back and he would take them to safety on the mainland where they could fetch help. She wondered if the brothers and sisters in that story ever argued, or if they were too happy to have each other, just like she would be to have a big family. She wondered too, if there were any whales off the Cornish coast…

A sharp crack of thunder brought her wide awake again, her eyes open but blind in the darkness. She must have slept longer than she’d realised; Granny Grace had come in and extinguished the lamp already. Or maybe Papá had come home and done it? He must have been very quiet. She slipped out of bed, and pulled the curtain aside and peered out; lightning stabbed at the side of the hill, and she barely had time to draw a breath before the thunder followed; a rumble that went on longer than ever before, growing much louder before it finally faded.

Freya listened for snoring from downstairs, where Papá would be sleeping on the couch, or for sounds of him changing into the dry clothes Granny had left for him in the kitchen. But there was nothing except the storm. She lit the waxy blob that was all that remained of her candle, pulled her dressing gown from the back of the door, and went out onto the landing. At the top of the stairs she listened again, but there was still nothing. Her toes curled against the cold, but she made them open out again, and went down to the front room. The couch was empty, the clock ticked, deep and impersonal as it marked the passing time, and a glance at it told Freya it was well past midnight. She went to the kitchen. There was the pile of dry clothes, just as Granny had left them, along with the hunk of bread and the butter dish, ready for Papá’s supper.

Her heart was thudding painfully now. She looked at the door, as if hoping fiercely enough that it would open at any moment would make it happen. The door remained closed. The kitchen was a flickering confusion as lightning flared and died, and flared again, and the thunder was almost constan. . .