Pansy shrugged. ‘I don’t know any owls so I can’t say if I like them or not but last night I dreamed Mummy came and sat in the tree and she was an owl.’
Henry felt a shiver run through his body. Pansy had never spoken of dreaming about her mother before. She was so little when Naomi died and even though Henry had tried to keep Naomi’s memory alive, she was almost an imaginary symbol in Pansy’s life, like Father Christmas or the Easter Bunny.
‘Mummy was an owl? How nice,’ he said, trying to keep his tone light. He hadn’t dreamed about Naomi in over a year and he missed her but then the pain when he woke and realised it was a dream was almost like going through the death all over again. He missed dreaming about her but was also grateful he didn’t dream so much anymore and for this, he felt guilty.
‘Yes, she was an owl and she was watching us.’ Pansy stated this as though it were a completely normal event in her life as she wrapped a baby doll in a blanket.
‘Were we also owls?’ He smiled.
‘No, silly Daddy, we were here as people, and the house was pink.’ Pansy laid a doll’s blanket out on the moss. ‘My babies and I are playing vets now, so you can go and do your work.’
Henry watched his daughter line her dolls up and put a collection of plastic animals on the blanket with a toy doctor’s kit.
She must have seen the sketches and watercolours he did for Clara, he thought, because how else would she know he thought the house would be perfect painted pink?
Children were funny little things, he told himself with a shake of his head. Nevertheless, he found himself looking up at the oak tree to see if Naomi was an owl in the tree, watching over them.
12
Rachel woke with a start. The sound of the kettle whistling was unfamiliar. Usually she was the one awake first, making Mother’s tea and taking it into her bedroom and then going downstairs to start the day before dawn. Baking and kneading and preparing what Mother told her to sell for the day.
The memories of the night before began to stir. She remembered Mother at the bottom of the stairs and watching Clara come back after the hospital – Clara, who knew how to get bloodstains out of the linoleum. She didn’t ask how she knew, as Clara seemed very focused on her task and was barking orders for baking soda and vinegar so Rachel did as she asked.
When the floor was clean, they went to bed. Rachel was glad Clara had stayed. She didn’t want to face the stain or the memories alone.
Rachel pulled on her dressing gown and opened the door to her bedroom and went to the little kitchen, where Clara was dunking tea bags with enthusiasm, spilling little drops of tea onto the counter.
Mother wouldn’t like that, thought Rachel and then she remembered Mother was in hospital.
‘Hello,’ she said to Clara, feeling ashamed of her having to be here to help her when they hardly knew each other.
Clara turned around and tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘Good morning. I let you sleep. I put a sign up on the door of the shop.’
‘What time is it?’ asked Rachel, noticing the sun coming through the kitchen window.
‘Eight,’ said Clara. ‘Milk, sugar?’
Mother didn’t like her having either.
‘Both, thank you,’ said Rachel and watched as Clara spooned two sugars into the mug and a splash of milk, a quick stir, then handed it to Rachel.
‘Shall we sit?’ asked Clara, gesturing to the sofa.
They sat in silence, the heater warming their toes. Rachel wasn’t usually allowed to have the heater on in the mornings and she felt her toes wiggle in appreciation.
‘I’ve rung the hospital; your mum is going into surgery this morning. They said they will ring you when you can go down.’
Rachel nodded and let the mug warm her fingers as she sipped her tea.
She didn’t want the hospital to ring. She just wanted to forget it ever happened but more than that, she didn’t want her mother to come home.
Clara’s eyes on her felt like X-ray vision, as if she could see everything Rachel was thinking. She stood up quickly.
‘I need to open the bakery; I will just do some sandwiches for the day and some shortbread and scones.’
‘You will have the day off,’ said Clara firmly.
‘I never take a day off. Mother said holidays are for lazy people.’
Rachel noticed Clara’s eyes narrow slightly.
‘Did your mother work in the bakery?’
‘She did all the accounts and paperwork upstairs.’
Clara raised her eyebrows now and Rachel bit her lip. She knew what Clara was thinking but she couldn’t be disloyal to Mother, not after all she did for her.
‘Rachel, I want to help you,’ said Clara, draining her tea and putting it on the table.
‘You already have – thank you so much for coming when I called last night.’
And Rachel meant it. She was grateful. She wasn’t sure what she would have done if she didn’t have Clara’s number. Or maybe she was sure and she didn’t want to admit it yet.
‘No, I mean about your mother. She seems to be very domineering – perhaps it’s something you can speak to someone about.’
‘She loves me,’ said Rachel, knowing she sounded flat though she tried to mean it. ‘She really loves me.’
‘But she hurts you.’
Rachel was silent in the face of the truth.
‘Love shouldn’t hurt, Rachel. I know this. My mum went through it with my dad. I was lucky – she protected me and got me away from him, but there is no one to help you here.’
‘I don’t need help,’ said Rachel defiantly.
‘Then why did you call me, of all the people in this village, why me?’ Her question was asked so gently yet it felt like Rachel
