Cover

Dedication

For Elizabeth Lane, Rhoda Douglas and June Kennedy

Part One

1

Saffy

April 2018

I’M IN THE FRONT GARDEN, PULLING AT WEEDS THAT spill out from the borders of the driveway, like gigantic spiders, when I hear yells. Deep and guttural. The builders are in the rear garden with the mechanical digger. All morning, as I was pruning the rose bush under the living-room window, I could hear the thrum of it on the breeze, like a nagging headache. But now it’s stopped. It’s enough to make my heart pound and Snowy – Gran’s little Westie who’s lying beside me – prick up his ears. I turn towards the cottage, a film of sweat breaking out between my shoulder blades. Has something happened? I imagine severed joints and gushing blood – at odds with the blue skies and the dazzling sunshine – and my stomach heaves. I’ve never had a strong gut at the best of times but being fourteen weeks pregnant I’m still experiencing morning sickness – well, morning, noon and night sickness.

I stand up, mud stains on the knees of my jeans, still my usual size, although the waistband is snugger. I deliberate, chewing the inside of my cheek, inwardly berating myself for being so indecisive. Snowy stands up too, his ears pricked, and he emits one solitary bark as a builder – Jonty, the young good-looking one – suddenly appears from around the side of the house. He’s running towards me, damp circles under the armpits of his T-shirt as he waves his cap in the air to get my attention, his sandy curls bouncing with each step.

Shit, he’s going to tell me there’s been an accident. I fight the urge to run in the opposite direction, instead shielding my eyes from the sun that beats down onto the thatched roof. Jonty doesn’t appear injured but as he gets closer I can see shock on his freckled face.

‘Is someone hurt?’ I call, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. Oh, God, I’m going to have to ring for an ambulance. I’ve never phoned 999 in my life. And I’m not good with blood. I wanted to be a nurse when I was younger, until I fainted when my best friend fell off her bike and gashed her knee open.

‘No. Sorry to disturb you but,’ he sounds out of breath and his words tumble out in a rush, ‘we’ve found something. You’d better come. Quick!’

I drop my gardening gloves onto the grass and follow him around the side of the cottage, Snowy at my heels, wondering what it could be. Treasure, perhaps? Some relic from the past that could be exhibited in a museum? But the yells. They weren’t of joy at the discovery of something precious. They were laced with fear.