Tipping the plate off her head, Pansy caught it and looked at Clara and then at Rachel.
‘Your mum sounds like a mean old cow. You should tell her to find a new house to live in.’
Clara tried to stifle her shocked gasp and Henry called out her name but Rachel looked at Pansy and nodded, smiling a little.
‘You know what? She is a mean old cow and I hope she finds a new house to live in too.’
Clara and Henry exchanged a glance and smothered smiles. Sometimes children had the perfect understanding of life and it was the adults who made life complicated. Very complicated.
14
Clara opened the gate at the front of Tassie’s house and carefully closed it behind her. Everything about Tassie’s garden was perfect, from the carefully edged lawns to the lavender hedge left long on top, with bees lazily cruising between the flowers.
She lifted the brass knocker shaped like a fox and rapped on the door, remembering the fox she had seen the night of Moira Brown’s accident.
Just as she finished the last knock, the door opened.
‘Oh gosh, were you already at the door?’ asked Clara.
‘No, I knew you were coming. I was expecting you,’ said Tassie. ‘I got the Ladybird in my tea leaves again and I knew the nurse wasn’t coming today.’
‘Goodness, how spooky, are you sure you’re not a witch?’ she half joked.
Tassie rolled her eyes at Clara. ‘I saw your red car, but I did think something was in the air today, as I had a very itchy left eyebrow.’
Clara peered at Tassie’s eyebrows, which were drawn on with an eye pencil.
‘What if the right one was itchy?’ she asked.
‘Left is a lady visitor, right is a gentleman visitor. I don’t think the right one is even functioning anymore.’
Tassie wiggled it and Clara burst into laughter.
‘I like the fox door knocker. I saw a fox the other night. It ran in front of my car when I was driving to help Rachel,’ she said, making conversation. ‘And Henry thought a fox was living in the house when I moved into the cottage.’
Tassie looked at her closely. ‘You will uncover a great secret then,’ she said.
Clara shook her head. ‘Pardon? What do you mean?’
‘Foxes crossing your path are leading you to reveal a great secret.’
Clara shrugged. ‘I have no idea what that would be, I don’t have any secrets.’
Tassie seemed to look at her longer than usual but it was hard to know because she was very old and perhaps she was merely trying to focus, thought Clara. Then Tassie spoke and the mood became lighter.
‘Come in, pet – drink tea with me and have some lovely gingerbread that Rachel brought me yesterday. I don’t get much company besides the nurse, who I could take or leave, although the cleaner sent by the council, Nahla, is always welcome. She’s a lovely girl – you should meet her.’
Clara followed Tassie into the little kitchen. It was exactly what a kitchen should look like. Little checked curtains framed the window, lemons sat patiently on the windowsill, a cheery tea towel on top of the counter, an old double ceramic sink all set off by pale pink cabinets. Against one wall was a large Welsh dresser, displaying a large collection of mismatched china from Cornish ware to chintz teacups and pretty eggcups and jugs of all sizes and colours.
‘A pink kitchen? Oh wow, this is perfect,’ said Clara as she looked around. ‘That dresser is incredible.’
‘That was my great-grandmother’s,’ said Tassie as though it wasn’t anything important.
Clara tried to imagine having anything that old her in her life, passed from generation to generation, but failed to find the image or the feeling of having that much history. Clara had never delved into her family history, on either side. Some things need to be left alone; nothing good had come of her family so far, there was too much to forget, not celebrate.
‘Do you want me to make the tea?’ asked Clara as she saw Tassie put the old kettle onto the stove and then light a match underneath.
‘No love, this will be the most exercise I’ll do today, so I’ll be sure to sleep tonight.’
Clara wasn’t sure if she was joking or not, so she sat at the table while Tassie moved about slowly.
Tassie carefully placed the gingerbread on a plate with a faded pattern of pink roses and gold edging, and carried over the pot of tea when the kettle had boiled.
‘Let her sit,’ Tassie said, nodding at the teapot. ‘She needs to stew.’
Tassie put down a small jug of milk and sat opposite Clara. A heavy sigh escaped as she sunk into the chair.
‘Now you’ve come to talk about Rachel and her mother. I saw the lights of the ambulance, wasn’t sure if Rachel had finally lost her head and did Moira in, not that anyone would blame her.’
Clara sighed. ‘Mrs Brown fell down the stairs, terrible hip and leg injuries. I mean I feel awful for her but I’m glad Rachel gets a break from her. But I don’t know that Rachel can keeping living with her mum. I just don’t understand why she would be so awful to her daughter when they don’t have anyone else.’
Tassie turned the teapot and then poured them both a cup.
‘Some women are mothers and some aren’t. It doesn’t matter if you grow a child within you, you can still fail it as it grows once it’s out in the world. And you can be an exceptional parent and not have ever even conceived a baby.’
‘Did you have children, Tassie?’ asked Clara.
Tassie shook her head. ‘Never did. We tried but no babies. In the end we just had dogs and chickens to care for. But I was the local schoolteacher when there were children in the village. I had more than enough little ones to care for and teach to read and how to say please and thank you.’
Clara smiled. ‘That might
