“I’m returning to Epping,” Susan had told Clover as they cleaned out Duncan’s closet. Clover didn’t understand. How could she? Although Susan had retained the deed to the land, she’d only taken Clover, mostly as a wee child, on family picnics to the farm. The pasture had been overrun with thistle. The lofts were dilapidated. The shelter had collapsed. And Clover, not being an outdoorsy child, had refused to tinkle in the woods, let alone step foot in a spider-infested loo. The picnics were often cut short as they rushed off to a filling station with Clover’s bladder about to burst.

A year after Duncan’s passing, Susan began rebuilding the cottage. From memory, she worked with a local contractor to build a replica of the structure. It looked much as it did before the war, with one large exception: the cottage was one story, instead of two. “Your knees, Mother,” Clover had said as they reviewed the architectural blueprints. Despite giving in to her daughter’s insistence on leaving out the stairs, the cottage turned out splendidly. Susan started by spending weekends at the cottage. But within a year, she’d sold her flat in London and moved to Epping. She acquired sheep, and as their bellies fattened, the field once again turned green and fertile. And although Clover didn’t fancy the farm, Susan’s grandchildren had grown quite fond of their provincial retreat.

“I’m going to find you,” Susan said, crossing the living room. A rustling from down the hall. Susan smiled as she made her way to a guest bedroom.

“Ahem,” a wee voice whispered.

Susan turned and saw the tip of a child’s shoe sticking out from under the bed.

“I wonder where you could be.” Susan’s cane clumped over the floor.

The foot wiggled.

Susan lowered herself, disregarding pain in her kneecaps. She plucked off the boy’s shoe and tickled his foot.

“Aaaahhh!” Hugh giggled.

Susan grabbed the boy’s chubby calves and slid him out from under the bed.

Hugh squeezed her. “You cheated!”

“I did no such thing,” Susan said, helping Hugh put on his shoe.

“I’m it!” he proudly proclaimed.

Susan marveled at Hugh’s delight in being caught. And at how much he resembled Bertie. Stocky frame. Small barrel chest. His legs, adorably bowed, like the forearms of a pug.

Hugh ran outside and shouted, “Olly olly oxen free!”

Susan, returning to the living room, looked out the window and saw Evie, a thin, wiry girl with curly chestnut hair, galloping over the rows of sea lavender. She stepped on asters, squishing their stems, and sprinted toward the porch. Susan smiled. Where a garden once grew bland cabbage and root vegetables, it now contained a variety of flowers. After the war, she’d lost her taste for homegrown food and relished buying her groceries in a store, without the necessity of a ration book.