Netta fled from High House in confusion. This was the most exacting commission she had ever had. The hardest dress she would ever make. She realised with an ache in the pit of her stomach that every stitch would be agony, for it would be made in sorrow not joy. When it was finished she would lose Drew Stirling forever.

Late Afternoon in Kendal, May 1949

The sun was setting behind the slate-grey houses of the Lakeland town as Netta made for the van parked by the river. Business, business… the past few months had fled by in a flurry of tulle and satin, fittings and alterations. Polly would be anxious for her to return to Griseley to finish off Ginny Mackeever’s gown. It was not going well.

So what had happened to that New Year’s resolution again? Did it get swamped by all the sewing orders or was that just an excuse? She watched the River Kent rushing over the boulders in full spate, under the bridge she must drive across to carry on southwards.

Netta turned back towards the van with a heavy heart. She’d had a week to complete her mission. How could she have driven all this way, more than halfway home, knowing she’d funked her task? She sat down in the driving seat, placing the straw bag like a passenger to one side of her. You’ve done it again, she brooded, broken your promise, let yourself down.

She switched on the ignition and yanked the choke out but nothing happened. In frustration she pulled again and the engine spluttered as it cut out. Her fist hit the steering wheel. A man stuck his head in the open window.

‘Have you flooded the engine, love? Don’t be hasty. Put the choke back in and leave it a while. Mind on, don’t rush, give it the gentle touch.’

He winked and walked off, smiling to his wife.

‘Thanks.’ She winced at her own ignorance, slumping back into the seat with frustration. Even the wretched car didn’t know what to do with itself. She was stuck! Forwards or backwards, which was it to be? Neither option looked promising from where Netta was sitting: forwards to work and the ‘Royal wedding’ or a long drive backwards to battle for her son. Why was life so complicated now? It was all Drew Stirling’s fault. Why couldn’t he stay away? He was to blame for her confusion, damn him!

Netta turned on the ignition tentatively, hardly daring to believe that it might start up. ‘Turn again, Whittington,’ she prayed and the engine fired perfectly. She reached the river crossing and paused, knowing it was now or never. What should she do? Cross the Kent or turn back north into the hills of home. Trust in what you love and it will lead you… Dr Anwar had better be right but why, oh, why, was her own loving never straightforward?

8

Lapis Lazuli