Clara pushed the memories away and went downstairs and out of the cottage. Henry’s van was lit up and the door was open.
He was leaning against the door as Pansy was skipping in the summer twilight, singing a rhyme as she jumped the rope.
‘Robin Hood, dressed so good, got as many kisses as he could. How many kisses did he get?’
She started to count as she jumped the rope.
‘One, two, three, four.’
Clara looked at Henry who was smiling at Pansy.
‘Henry Garnett, wish he’d stay, he could take as many kisses as he may,’ she whispered to herself.
‘Clara, watch me skip,’ called Pansy.
Clara saw Henry look up at her and his eyes sweep over her in the sundress. She held it out and did a small curtsey, knowing she was blushing.
He did a silly bow but she didn’t feel it was too much; it was just enough. He was more than enough.
She walked towards Pansy, clapping her as she made it to ten without stopping and then starting again.
It was thirty-six steps to Henry’s van – she counted. She smiled as she looked up at him.
She wasn’t going to excuse the dress or try and make it less than it was.
She hated when women made excuses for looking nice. She never heard men do the same. ‘I just felt like dressing up tonight. No reason other than needing to remember I like nice dresses.’
‘That dress suits you,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ said Clara, feeling a knot of pleasure in her stomach.
‘Clara, watch me,’ demanded Pansy. So, she watched as Pansy struggled with the rope, flicking it over her head.
The close proximity of Henry made her skin burn with need and she wondered if she was just projecting onto the first single man since Piles or if she was really as into Henry as her body was telling her right now.
‘Wine?’ asked Henry and she heard his throat catch.
‘Yes please.’ Henry almost automatically handed her a glass.
‘The service is wonderful here.’ She laughed, turning her head to him, over her shoulder.
Henry laughed back but seemed flustered. Was she flirting? Was it too much?
He was hired to fix her cottage, not to take her to bed, she reminded herself.
Pansy walked towards them, panting dramatically, ‘I am knackered from that skipping,’ she said.
‘Come inside and you can have a sit-down while I run a bath for Miss Foulmouth.’
‘You have a bath?’ Clara shook her head. ‘This van is like Mary Poppins’s bag. It seems to have more room in it than meets the eye.’
‘Come and see,’ said Henry. She went inside and behind a nondescript-looking door, was a little bathroom complete with a half-sized claw-foot bath, and subway tiles. Ferns swung from macramé holders and a basket of bath toys was next to a sink and a toilet.
‘There is everything here, isn’t there?’ Clara looked in amazement at the quality of the workmanship on the panelling of the walls and the tiling; even the macramé was beautifully done.
‘Nearly everything,’ said Henry as he turned on the bath and put in some rose-scented bubble liquid.
‘Where is the water coming from?’ she asked.
‘I have a water tank on top and a small water heater,’ he said, as his hand stirred up the bubbles as the tub quickly filled.
‘Pansy,’ he called and she came running.
‘Go away, I’m going to be in the bath,’ she said, shoving a laughing Clara out of the way.
Clara waited in the van, adjusting her dress and trying to be casual. Why was she treating this like a date? It was just a simple early dinner with a man and his kid, nothing more.
Henry came into the space and sat opposite her and raised his glass. ‘To Acorn Cottage and its beautiful and clever owner, Clara Maxwell. May you find exactly what you want in this lovely spot of the world, and may you find the peace you need in your mind and forgiveness in your heart.’
Clara raised her glass to his and they touched them and then sipped the wine.
‘Thank you,’ she said and, from that moment, Clara wondered if Henry would ever find someone to share his life with. It seemed an enormous waste to have him all alone in the world.
19
Clara – aged 13
The first time she and Mum left was after Dad had hit Clara. It was an accident, he said. She’d got in the way. But Clara had screamed at him that he shouldn’t have been hitting anyone and this time he hit her on purpose. A smack across the face that spun her into the wall and while she was clutching the side of her head, he grabbed Mum by the throat and held her up against the wall.
‘Never, ever argue with me about money. I decide where it goes. I make it, you don’t. Understand?’
Clara had seen Mum nod, while gasping for breath. Dad had stopped her from working, even though they didn’t have enough money. He said the money wasn’t worth it and she needed to do a better job around the house.
Now he was talking about Clara leaving school in a few years and working to help around the house.
After his suggestion, Mum had a look on her face that Clara hadn’t seen before. For the past few months, Mum had been doing more ironing than usual for the ladies up the road. But Clara knew not to say anything and Dad was so stupid he didn’t realise she was being paid.
She had seen Mum put the money into a coffee tin and bury it around the side of the house and again, Clara knew not to say anything.
And one night, when Dad was out at the pub, and Clara was doing her homework, Mum came to her with
