Kissed a Sad Goodbye

always been there when he came home from school in the afternoon. Now, he found himself completely alone for the first time in his life.

He sat down on the rough blanket and stared at the lantern light wavering on the walls. Although the room still held the day’s heat, he began to shiver. He got up and extinguished the lantern, then curled himself into a fetal position on the narrow bed, his fist pressed to his mouth to keep the grief welling up inside him from escaping.

And so he slept, deeply and dreamlessly, until the morning sun brought a faint brightening round the edges of his window.

Awakening brought a moment of comfort, until he realized he couldn’t smell his mother’s cooking, or hear faint snatches of the songs she sang as she moved about the kitchen. Reality flooded back into his awareness, and with it the sense of being watched.

He opened his eyes, blinking stickily at a shadow in his doorway. As his vision cleared, the fuzzy form resolved itself into a boy about his own age, who crossed the room and pulled aside the curtains. Light flooded in, and Lewis saw that his visitor was tall and slender, and wore a navy blazer with a school tie. His dark hair was slicked neatly back above a pale face.

“Cook sent me to fetch you,” the boy said in an accent Lewis had heard only on the wireless. “And I wanted to see you for myself. I couldn’t get away last night—Mummy kept me fetching and carrying for Aunt Edwina while they talked about the war.”

Lewis sat up and rubbed his face. “The war? Has it started, then?”

The boy leaned against the window frame. “Not officially, but they expect the announcement sometime today. Aunt Edwina has the wireless on in the sitting room, and Cook’s listening in the kitchen. Aunt Edwina has a wager on with my dad that it will all come to nothing. ‘A bloody old windbag’ is what she calls Hitler. I think she’s wrong, though. There is going to be a war.”

“Is that why you’re here, too?” Lewis asked, feeling confused. He couldn’t imagine this elegant boy being sent away from home like a mislaid parcel.

“Edwina’s my godmother,” the boy explained. “Edwina Burne-Jones, she’s called. This is her house. Mummy is certain the Huns will bomb London, and my school with it, so she wants me to stay down here for a bit. Edwina says you come from the Island. My family’s business is there—Hammond’s Teas.”

“That’s just across the street from my school,” Lewis exclaimed with pleasure at encountering something familiar. “Are you a Hammond, then?”

“Oh, sorry.” The boy pushed himself away from the window and came towards Lewis with his hand outstretched. “I should have said. My name’s William. William Hammond.”

KINCAID KNOCKED AGAIN AT GEMMA’S DOOR. There was no response, even though her car was pulled up on the double yellows in front of her garage flat. He’d driven straight from King’s Cross without ringing first, something he seldom did, and now he realized he’d not considered whether he would be welcome.

But the thought of his empty flat was too sharp a reminder of his failed weekend, so he let himself through the wrought-iron gate that led into the Cavendishes’ garden. Perhaps Gemma had gone next door, as she often did.

The walled garden lay in the cool, rose-scented shadow of early evening, and as he made his way along the flagged path that led to the big house, he saw Hazel on her knees in the perennial bed next to the patio. She wore shorts that had seen better days, and a pink tank top that bared her lightly freckled shoulders.

“Gemma’s taken Toby to the park,” Hazel called out. “You’ll have to make do with me for a bit, unless you want to go after them.”

“I think you’ll do admirably. Although you look like you’re working entirely too hard.”

“Dandelions among the daisies,” Hazel said by way of explanation as he sank into a chair on the patio. “That’s the problem with this gorgeous weather. The weeds love it as much as we do.” She wiped her hand across her brow and left a dirty streak. “There’s some lemonade in the jug.” Frowning, she gave him a closer look. “Unless you’d like something stronger. You look a bit done in.”

He took a glass from the tray on the small table, then reached for the silver jug, its frosted surface traced with runnels of condensation. “No, this is fine, really. You’re a marvel, Hazel.”

“Tell that to my child. We’ve had a spectacularly bad day. Tim finally had to separate us and send me outside for a bit of earth therapy.” Sitting back, Hazel drank from the glass she’d placed on the flagstones.

“Oh, come on, Hazel. I’ve never seen you even out of sorts with the children.”

She laughed. “You should have heard me today, screeching like a fishwife at Holly because she refused to pick up the toys she’d deliberately thrown on the floor. Toby came in for his share of it, too, but he can’t push my buttons in the same way. There’s something about your own child.…” Hazel picked up her spade again and thrust it beneath the spiky leaves of a dandelion.

“Doesn’t your training as a psychologist help?”

“Much to my dismay, I’m discovering that understanding children’s behavior intellectually doesn’t always make dealing with it easier.” The dandelion came up with a spray of dirt and she shook what remained from the roots before tossing it into a pail.

“I don’t even have that small advantage.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.

Hazel glanced up at him. “What’s going on? Did you and Kit not have a good weekend?”

“That’s an understatement,” he said with a derisive snort.

Hazel pushed herself up from the flagstones, dusted off her bare knees, and came to sit beside him. “What happened?”

Kincaid looked away. The white lilies in Hazel’s border had begun to glow in the dusk. “I blew it. He was being stubborn and unreasonable, and I just lost it—blurted out that I was his dad, without thinking of the consequences.”

“And?” Hazel prompted.