With a sigh, Mary went back to the house. Mrs. Medlock was looking cranky. “I’ve been hunting high and low for you,” she huffed. “In future, kindly remember your bath will be ready at five twenty-five p.m. and you will be expected to be in your room by then. Now upstairs with you.” She marched on ahead of Mary.

“Do you have a problem with wild dogs around here?” Mary asked curiously, running after her.

“Wild dogs!” snorted Mrs. Medlock. “Of course we don’t have a problem with wild dogs.”

As Mary walked into her room, the door was shut firmly behind her. After being outside in the fresh air, and having space and freedom to skip and explore, her room felt more like a prison than ever. Going over to the walls, she touched the birds on the faded wallpaper. She imagined them fluttering their wings and flying away, sweeping her off to a place far away.

A forgotten memory suddenly surfaced in her mind. A flock of birds swooping around the garden in India. She had been very little—about four years old—and she’d run up to them. They’d flown away of course, but for a moment they had been all around her in flashes of brilliant color. She’d laughed in delight, spinning around with her arms above her head, until she heard a bang. It had been her mother, her face tearstained, abruptly closing the shutters of her window, shutting out Mary and the sound of her laughter. Mary could remember the confusion she’d felt. Didn’t her mother like her to be happy?

Mary returned to the present. Her life in India was already starting to feel like a very long time ago, but her memories of the way her mother had looked that day—and every other day that Mary could remember—no, she didn’t think those memories would ever fade.

6

Making Friends

That night, Mary was woken up by the same high-pitched wailing again. She listened, open-eyed in the dark. Was it the wind like Martha had said? Or was it a ghost of one of the soldiers who had died here? Remembering the fear she had felt the night before, she pulled the coverlet over her ears and stayed in bed.

When Mary woke in the morning, she sat up to see Martha kneeling beside her fireplace, arranging a layer of paper on the ashes. A tray with more porridge was on her table.

“Hello, Martha,” she said.

“Miss,” Martha said coldly.

Mary remembered the noises in the night. “Were you here when the soldiers were, Martha? Did you work in the hospital?”

Martha didn’t reply; she just kept laying the fire.