‘Are you saying I’ve held my daughter back?’ asked Henry in a clipped tone.
‘No, that’s not what I’m saying,’ said Clara but Tassie put her hand up.
‘That’s exactly what’s she saying,’ said Tassie. ‘You have held her back to protect her and love her and ensure that she will be with you and untouched by the horrible things that happen in life but you can’t do that forever, Henry. You will give her the best gift of all by letting her read and discover the world and start school with a joy for words and numbers and art and science.’
Henry was silent but Clara could see the muscles in his jaw twitching.
The way Tassie presented the situation was entirely reasonable and compassionate and she watched Henry process the information.
‘Naomi wanted to home-school her,’ he finally said.
‘But Naomi is gone now, pet,’ said Tassie. ‘Sad but true and sometimes the old ways aren’t for the new times. She will understand – you can ask her later. Do you love your little one with everything you have?’ she gently asked Henry who nodded and Clara could see tears in his eyes, wetting his long lashes.
‘Then let her discover the world with the wisdom of her mother and the bravery of her father to guide her.’
There was silence for a moment.
‘And I would love the company of a little girl with a sharp mind and a taste for butterfly cakes to give me some purpose again.’
Henry sighed.
‘How can I argue against any of that?’ He looked at Clara. ‘What do you think?’
Clara shrugged and smiled at him. God, she loved him so much but he was so lost when the task was emotional and not physical.
‘I think it would be good for Pansy and I think it would be good for you. Practice for the longer days when she is at school.’
Henry sipped his tea and then ate a shortbread biscuit. Clara saw him looking at the cupboard where Naomi was.
‘Okay,’ he said and he got up from the table, pushing the chair out with his legs, and walked out of the kitchen. They heard him climbing up onto the roof.
‘He’s upset,’ said Clara looking up at the ceiling.
‘Not with you, pet, he’s upset with life, because it gave him a bad hand the first time round but he will process it up on the roof. He’s closer to spirits up there, so it won’t take him long to understand.’
‘I’m pretty sure you’re a witch.’ Clara laughed.
Tassie smiled and sipped her tea. ‘And how are you sure you’re not one also?’
Before Clara could say anything, Pansy came running into the kitchen.
‘The tree said there are biscuits and I must have one.’
Clara looked at Tassie and sighed. ‘This tree whispering is going to be an excuse for everything from now on, and I blame you.’
Tassie shrugged and held out the plate of shortbread to Pansy before looking at Clara.
‘If you listen closely to her and the tree, you might learn a few things also.’
‘Like what?’ said Clara as she pulled Pansy onto her lap.
‘Whatever it is you need to know, Clara Maxwell. Because you stopped listening to your inner Clara a long time ago, and only you know why. But I tell you this, if you don’t start hearing the wisdom again, then it will roar in your face until you hear it, and that is never pleasant and it always comes with strong dose of heartbreak.’
Clara sat very still with Pansy on her lap. ‘What do you mean?’ But Tassie shook her head at Clara.
‘No more, you know what I am talking about. Now take me home, I have to get ready for my new student.’
39
Clara decided to immerse herself in her rural dream. She was ready to become crafty except she didn’t know how to be crafty. For years she had read books on how to knit or sew or crochet but never actually sat down and tried so the following Saturday, Clara arrived at Tassie’s house after lunch with her needles and bag of cotton yarn.
This was Clara’s knitting lesson and she was nervous.
Tassie had offered to teach Clara how to knit when she had seen the jar of knitting needles in her hall cupboard.
‘I have a book but it’s hard to understand,’ said Clara.
‘You don’t learn from a book, you learn from a knitter,’ said Tassie firmly. ‘Now mind you, I haven’t knitted in about ten years, haven’t had anyone to knit for, but I will teach you how to knit dishcloths.’
‘Dishcloths?’ asked Clara.
‘Nothing like having a dishcloth you have made yourself and they wash in the machine and they are very easy to make and long-lasting. I never bought those cloths when I was first married. I made everything myself, mostly because I had to. George was a milkman and didn’t earn much and neither did I.’
Tassie’s old hands defied their age when she cast on the cotton yarn she had instructed Clara to buy and soon she was knitting away.
‘The moss pattern is good for scrubbing and the one you’re doing, with the plain and purl is good for glasses and china.’
So Clara sat in the armchair opposite Tassie and knitted slowly. Sometimes she dropped a stitch but Tassie showed her how to loop it back on and keep going.
‘It feels like a nice metaphor for life.’ Clara laughed. ‘Fall down once, get up again.’
Clara watched Tassie knit. Her fingers flew and the wool formed into a pretty pattern called moss stitch according to Tassie.
‘Who taught you to knit?’ asked Clara, as she tried to wrangle her own needles.
‘My mum,’ said Tassie looking up. ‘She could knit a boat if I had asked, and there wouldn’t be a leak. Could have sailed it to Australia and back again.’
‘Tell me about your mum,’ said Clara.
She doubted she could have been more at peace than she was at this moment.
This was why she moved to the country, she thought. And
