Chapters (36)
- Cover
- ALSO BY FRANCES LIARDET
- Dedication
- Map of the Parish of Upton and Barrow End
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- A NOTE ON PLACE
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- SOURCES
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
“Yes,” she says again, but less certainly. Her good hand is now beckoning. Ah—she needs a better look at the scarf. I spread it out over a small table and pull the table in front of her. No big thumps this time but all the same my heartbeat picks up a fraction. Enough to notice.
She stares, frowns, cocks her head. But the next yes is even more cautious.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” I say, “but can you only say yes?”
“Yes.” Very firm, and her mobile eyebrow frowns. And I’m absolutely fed up with it.
She peers closer. Abruptly the light leaves her eyes. “Yes.” She sighs, her tone now utterly dismissive, as if she can’t believe what silly nonsense I’ve presented her with. For good measure, she flicks the back of her good hand at the scarf and at me together.
“It’s not yours, then?”
Another deep, cross sigh. “Yes yes yes!” she says, with an irritable little shake of the head. Of course it’s not, she means. Haven’t I made myself clear?
“Never mind. I’m sorry to have bothered you. Goodbye.”
She stares away at the window, avoiding my gaze, her eyes hot. Expecting no further response, I reclaim the scarf and make my way out of the room. The corridor is deserted, Terry Shaw’s door closed. I can hear her voice on the phone, only the rise and fall, no words.
The front doors of Redwood House have opened to the overcast sky and a metallic light comes in, blazing around and blurring the outline of a tall man in a black mackintosh who is coming over the threshold, his shoulders spangled with raindrops. I let him pass and make my way outside.
The woman in the wheelchair thought she had glimpsed something, but it wasn’t really there. It must have been another figure or pattern she had in mind, part of the lost fabric of her own life. These things trick and tease the eye and the heart and there’s always a disappointment, as when you half recognize a face in a crowd and then a clearer light or closer look reveals it to be nothing like the face you love. And you wonder how you could have been so deceived.
EIGHT
Yvette
18 March 1964