Charley gets woken up by the birds’ singing in the morning and just lies there, trying to believe her luck. There are ponies and sheep in the fields here; everyone is happier except maybe Izzy. Mum is, definitely; maybe because she’s writing so she’s kind of switched on all the time, you can tell. She’s not saying what the story is about yet. Charley doesn’t want to go back to London. They’ve actually talked about moving here and changing schools, though Mum thinks Dad might prefer to stay in London when he’s back, but they’ll cross that bridge when they come to it, apparently.

Poppy is kind of waiting to see what she feels; she likes it mostly because Sorrel looks more as she used to, though she hasn’t grown that much; Mum says that’s to be expected and she’ll catch up eventually. She misses Dad and she’s never not thinking about Ash, but she can’t tell Mum. Grace was really helpful, she said it gets better; it’s not that the sadness gets smaller exactly, but that you get stronger so it’s easier to carry. She can just about imagine how that might work.

Izzy misses the noise and the lights. She’s bored, to be honest, but they had to come, obviously. Sorrel’s getting better, so everyone’s happy about that, but her memory hasn’t come back, maybe it won’t. Mum’s loads better; she talks about Dad sometimes, they’re both just relieved he’s in prison. Everyone loves tennis, but she misses the games they used to play. They could always start playing them again, you know, in a bit.

17. April

Eve

“Where’s Ash’s tractor?”

“Tractor?” Eve echoes Sorrel’s question sleepily. Across the lawn, the old house glows pink orange in the spring sunshine, the windows are wide open. The interior will be silent and flooded with light. Grace is writing somewhere inside that quietness. Behind the house, sheep are dotted all over the Downs, smaller ones among the larger ones. April is hot this year, hotter than usual; it’s as though summer has come early. The grass is thick. She hasn’t worn shoes for a week. Sorrel is lying on her stomach next to her, drawing pictures on a pad of paper. Half awake, Eve feels, imagines she feels, another presence, a head near hers. A blond one, green eyes staring up into the branches of the cypress tree above them. A life unlived, alongside hers. For once the pain has receded enough so she can feel the edge of contentment—not happiness, not yet.

“You know, the red one.”

“It’s in a bag, sweetheart, in the loft, back at home.” Then the question hits her; she sits up, the blond head disappears, she puts her hand on the grass where he would have been. Sorrel has a new memory. She must keep calm, mustn’t exclaim, mustn’t even hug her.

“What did he use to do with his tractor?”

“He ran it over my tummy. It tickled.” Sorrel starts humming. She is coloring in: brown branches, green grass, a big yellow sun. “It was a nice tractor. I liked it.”