rather a wanderer, he had accumulated a bizarre collection of souvenirs from his travels: tiger-skins and hookahs from India; puppets from the Indonesian archipelago; Maori carvings and other totems that hailed from the South Sea islands. Some they had discovered hanging on the walls, others relegated to the attic or the basement. A Red Indian headdress found hanging on a hook in what had once been the gun-room had been appropriated by Freddie and now decorated the wall above his bed. His attempt to take possession of a Zulu shield and assegai that came to light in the attic, however, had been blocked by Mary and his pleas had moved her only so far as to agree to allow the objects to be mounted on the wall in the sittingroom well out of reach of his eager hands.
Having shaken out the bedclothes, she left the bed stripped to air and went downstairs to the warm kitchen, where a stew made of scrag ends, the only meat available in the butcher’s that week, had been simmering on the iron range all morning, and where Hodge’s wife — known to all as Mrs H — was busy peeling potatoes and chopping up carrots and parsnips to add to the pot. A cheerful woman with a face as red as a lobster, she’d become a great favourite of Freddie’s once he’d discovered she had a glass eye.
‘There’ll be snow before the day’s out,’ she remarked to Mary. ‘You’ll see. And once it starts it’ll go on. That’s what they say.’
The topic had been much discussed between them, Mary’s romantic wish for a white-clad countryside countered by Mrs H’s countrywoman’s dislike of the stuff because of the disruption it brought to everyday life, a dislike tempered now by her realization of how much it would mean to Freddie. She had had two sons herself, she had told Mary, both killed in the last war, and within only a few weeks of one another, a tear rolling down her cheek from one eye as she spoke, while the other had remained fixed and staring.
Having lingered for a moment longer to inspect her stew and give it a stir and a cupful of water, Mary went to the other end of the room, where the latest proof of Ezra Hodge’s now well-established benevolence towards her household was on display in the shape of a Christmas tree. A week earlier the old boy had knocked on the kitchen door and presented her with the object, which he had dragged from his cart.
‘Spotted it in Foley’s Copse a month ago,’ he had said, referring to a small wood at the edge of the property, his weathered countenance split by a toothless grin. ‘Been keeping an eye on it.’
Together he and Mary had filled a wooden tub unearthed from a pile of junk in the barn with soil and set up the tree in a corner of the kitchen. Later that same afternoon, when Freddie had returned from a walk with Evie to the neighbouring MacGregor farm, he had found his mother down on her knees stringing fairy lights on the pliant branches and had watched open-mouthed as she crawled behind the tree to plug the set in and then sat back on her heels with a sigh.
‘I noticed these in a box when we were going through the attic,’ she told them both. ‘I’ve no idea if they still work.’ (A small fib; she had already tested the circuit.) ‘Freddie, why don’t you switch them on and we’ll find out.’
Holding his breath, eyes popping with suppressed excitement, her son had found his way under the branches to the switch and a moment later, like magic, the score of brightly coloured bulbs had come alight. Red, blue and gold, they had twinkled amidst the branches while the little boy gazed in wonder at the sight.
Further embellishments had since been added to the tree, thanks to Bess, who had produced several yards of silver string to drape on the green branches and an angel with hands folded in prayer to perch on top. But although Mary loved seeing it lit up, she was conscious of the need to save electricity and only turned on the switch after dark.
Pausing for a moment to set the angel straight, she went to a door beside the tree which gave access to the cellar beneath the kitchen. Steep steps led down into darkness, but there was a light at the top, and, having switched it on, she descended to the dank depths and, before pursuing the mission that had brought her there, attended first to a task that by now was almost second nature: checking the woodfired furnace that occupied a corner of the basement to see if it needed feeding. Maintaining a supply of hot water for the house was one of her principal worries: both the furnace and the water tank above it were relics of an earlier age and Mary lived in dread that one or the other, or perhaps both, would fail, leaving the household deprived of this basic amenity.
Relieved, as always, to find all well, and having added some logs to the fiery mass within, she turned to scan the cellar’s varied contents, which included old wine racks, discarded pieces of furniture and crates of books too mouldy to put in shelves but which Mary hadn’t had the heart to throw out. She had not found the item she was searching for when she noticed that the door which gave access to the yard had been left unlocked yet again. The culprit was undoubtedly her son, who, though he’d been told countless times not to play down there, persisted in exploring the stored rubbish whenever he got the chance, safe in the knowledge that a swift escape was always possible should his presence be detected.
Having rebolted the door for the umpteenth time — and reminding herself to speak to Freddie yet again — Mary resumed her search and almost at once spotted what she was looking for: a full-length mirror that was standing propped against the wall beside an empty wine rack. Grasping hold of the glass on either side, she retraced her steps and ascended to the kitchen, pausing at the top to switch out the light and delaying a few seconds more when she saw her own reflection close up: her brown eyes (which Mary secretly had always thought of as her best feature) now showing the first faint creases at the corners that one day — one day all too soon — would turn into crow’s feet; her cheeks still unmarked by age but grown thinner and browner these past months, a development she ascribed to the healthy outdoor life she’d been living, and last of all her hair, which she hardly dared look at. Deprived of the services of a beauty salon — the nearest one was in Petersfield — she’d been forced to rely on the combined efforts of Bess and Evie to keep her thick brown hair trimmed and manageable, and though they had done their best (she was sure) the results had not been happy, and for several days after each barbering session Mary had gone around feeling like a shorn sheep. She wondered what Peter would say if he saw her: she wondered what he would feel when they met again after so long. (It was more than two years now since he’d been posted abroad with his regiment.) Would they have to get to know each other again? Would something have been lost between them? Shuddering at the horrid thought, she thrust it from her mind.
The mirror was destined for Bess’s room, which for some reason was lacking one, but as Mary reached the top of the stairs with her burden and stepped into the kitchen she heard the creak of wheels outside and saw through the window above the sink that Hodge’s cart, drawn by his old dray, had appeared in the yard and was moving slowly across the cobbles. The mystery of Freddie’s whereabouts was solved at the same moment; she spied her son sitting perched on the driver’s seat beside its owner, holding the reins while Evie, buttoned up in her coat and with a woollen shawl shielding her head and ears, walked alongside them.
‘Keep an eye on this, would you, Mrs H?’
Leaving the mirror propped against the sink, Mary went outside into the freezing afternoon air. She waved to Freddie, but he gave no sign of seeing her, being far too occupied with managing the reins. Hodge, however, lifted his cap in a salute.
‘Lad’s getting the idea,’ he called out.
Evie waved her free hand. She was carrying a basket of pine cones from the wood, where they must have gone with Hodge, and Mary watched as she took off her shawl, shaking her head and letting her red hair fall free; smiling as she did so. It seemed the talk they had had that morning had lifted her spirits, and thinking over the events of the past few weeks Mary thought she understood better now how the girl’s worries must have been accumulating until they reached the point where she felt the need to share them. She walked across the yard to join them, smiling herself as she saw Freddie, with his mentor’s help, bring the cart to a stop. Still bubbling with pleasure as his feat, he sprang off the seat into his mother’s arms.
‘Did you see me, Mummy? Did you see me?’
Before Mary could reply, the clip-clop of trotting hoofs sounded from the lane outside and next moment Bess swept into the yard, the wheels of her trap rattling on the uneven cobbles.
‘Whoa, Pickles!’
She pulled back on the reins, drawing to a halt beside the cart.
‘Just the man I’m looking for.’ She peered down at Freddie. ‘I’ve got a parcel in the back for you all the way from Canada. I wonder what’s in it.’
Turning, she hoisted up the package from the bed of the trap and lowered it into his waiting arms.
‘Careful! It’s heavy.’
Bundled up like a parcel himself in a tweed coat and scarf, Freddie’s short arms offered little in the way of purchase, but somehow he managed to hang on to the precious object, and ignoring his mother’s offer to take it from him he turned and set off on a weaving path towards the kitchen door. Evie hurried after him, still clutching
