BooksBarbecue
Back The Whistling Save as PDF
Chapters (52)
  1. COVER
  2. About the Author
  3. DEDICATION
  4. EPIGRAPH
  5. Part One
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. Part Two
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. Part Three
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. Acknowledgements
  52. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

As if sensing my consternation, her face lined with anxiety. I knelt and touched one, picked it up and studied it. The hair was dark or dirty. It could have been any colour, even red beneath the grime. I walked to the window to give myself a moment of calm. Behind me there was silence but when I turned, tears ran from her lashes and on to her face. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and watched me, fear dilating her pupils. Light from the glass caught the slight pink of her pale hair. Again, I reminded myself this was a child in pain. If she thought that the pebbles could bind one to love, who more than she, who had lost so many, would be drawn to that idea? Even so, it could not continue.

‘There will be no more of this,’ I could hear the height of emotion in my words.

She nodded.

‘I want to understand,’ I said.

She met my gaze but with that strange, removed expression.

‘These stones, Mary, the ones with figures on them. What do they mean to you?’

I thought she whitened but she refused to meet my eye again. Rising to my feet, I took some paper and a pencil from her art box.

‘You must tell me,’ I insisted, in a tone that I had not used before. I wanted to hear her say that she did not know or that she had made them with the purpose of love.

Although she tried to hide it, there was distress again in her look.

‘Please tell me, Mary. I want to understand. I know your brother was not a good boy. I know it and you know it too, don’t you?’

She flushed and pulled the paper to her and began an angry scrawl. When she had finished, her breath escaped her in a gasp and I took the page from her.

‘Death’, she had written. ‘Death. Death. Death.’

With each word the force of her pencil scratched deeper into the paper – then she sprang to her feet and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

18

After trying to comfort Mary the previous night I had returned to my room, but the experience had left me numb with horror. I woke to the image of her beneath the water and the words she had scrawled on the piece of paper. In the mirror my skin was white, my eyes haunted. The day could not have been a good one, however much circumstances might have made it so. Today should have been Clara’s birthday.

The picture of the two children and Hettie was propped on my dressing table, but I did not need to see William and Hettie’s images to recall the detail of their faces; they were branded on my unease.