Water Like A Stone

Chapter Seven

The Newcombes had walked back from church, the four of them together, Sam and Lally forging ahead with their father while Juliet lagged behind. They would have looked a proper family to anyone watching, thought Juliet, the children boisterous with the cold and the excitement of the occasion, the father doting, the mother tired from the day’s preparations.

But when they’d reached the house, Caspar had disappeared into his study without a word, and Juliet had gone up with the children.

Then, when she’d seen Sam and Lally settled and kissed them good night, she’d gone into her bedroom and carefully, deliberately, locked the door.

She leaned against it, breathing hard, her hands trembling and her heart pounding in her ears. It was over. Her marriage was over.

She couldn’t deny it any longer. She’d lived with the sarcasm, the veiled accusations, the ridicule, refusing to acknowledge the extent of the rot.

But tonight Caspar had gone too far. The things he’d said to her, his humiliation of her in front of her family, were unforgivable.

There could be no going back.

But how could she manage if she left him? What could she do? She had virtually no income; drawing a pittance of a salary, she only barely managed to keep her fl edgling business out of the red. Of course, she could do the sensible thing. She could give it up, find an ordinary, respectable office job that would bring in a regular paycheck.

But oh, she loved her building work with a passion she’d never expected, loved even the days spent in blistering sun and freezing rain, days she came home so exhausted she fell asleep over her dinner. She had a knack for seeing what things could become, and for bringing brick and stone to life under her hands.

No, she wouldn’t let it go, wouldn’t let Caspar take that from her, too, not if there was any way she could help it. What, then? Ask her parents for help? Bad enough that she would have to admit she had failed at her marriage, without begging for money as well.

Of course, she wouldn’t be penniless. Caspar would have to give her some financial assistance. But she knew him now, knew he would use his connections to find the best solicitor, knew he would juggle funds to reduce his apparent means and that Piers would help him, regardless of the cost to the children.

And the children—dear God, how could she tell the children she meant to leave their father? Lally would never forgive her. And Sam, what would it do to Sam, so vulnerable beneath his constant chatter?

But she could see now that she’d been a fool to think the children didn’t know what was happening, a fool not to realize that Caspar was poisoning them against her every day in little, insidious ways, and that he was prepared to do worse.

She had to think. She had to come up with a strategy that would protect her and the children. Steeling herself, she unlocked the door, switched off the light, and climbed into bed, her body tense as a spring. But there was no tread on the stairs, no click of the doorknob turning.

Slowly, the traumas of the day caught up with her. Her body warmed under the duvet, her muscles relaxed, and against her will,

her eyelids drifted closed. Hovering in that halfway state between sleeping and waking, she knew when the dream began that it was a dream.

She held a baby in her arms . . . Sam . . . no, Lally . . . She recognized the pink blanket with its leaping white sheep. The child stirred in her arms . . . She could feel the warmth of it against her breast . . . Then, as she looked down, the tiny red face melted away, bone blossoming beneath the skin, eyes sinking into the gaping pits of the sockets.

Juliet gasped awake and sat up, panting in terror. It was a dream, only a dream of the poor child she had found. Sam and Lally were safe. “Only a dream,” she whispered, easing herself down under the covers again. “Only a dream.”

But as her heart slowed, her senses began to register the faint pre-dawn creakings of the house. She had slept longer than she thought, and the night was almost over. Caspar wasn’t coming to bed at all.

A wave of fury washed over her, leaving her sick and shaking, slicked with sweat. He’d never meant to come up, never meant to face her after the things he’d said. Avoiding a confrontation was his way of punishing her, of keeping the upper hand.

Now she would have to get up in the morning, go down, and manage Christmas for the children as if nothing had happened, and he would be smug and vicious in his little victory.

And then a new thought struck her. Was he ahead of the game?

Was he plotting already, calculating the damage he could do? And the children—there had been something sly tonight in the way he had sucked up to Sam and Lally, complimenting and cajoling them.

The children. She clutched at the bed, as if the room had rocked on its foundations. What if he meant to take the children?

Christmas morning dawned cold and clear, with a sparkling layer of frost laid over the packed snow like icing on a cake. Ronnie Babcock s

greeted the beautiful day with a distinct lack of appreciation, and a reminder to himself to dig out his sunglasses or he’d have a permanent squint. His central- heating boiler had not miraculously repaired itself in the night, and after sleeping under every spare blanket and duvet he could find, he’d plunged out of bed with the temerity of an arctic explorer, bathing (thank God for immersion heaters) and shaving with dangerous haste. His reward for his fortitude was a seeping cut on his chin. Lovely, just bloody lovely.

And to top it off, he knew he couldn’t forgo his duty visit to his great-aunt Margaret, case or no case, and he had better get it over with before his appointment with Dr. Elsworthy at Leighton Hospital.

Margaret was his mother’s mother’s sister, and the only link remaining to his family. Nor had she anyone else. A childless spinster, she had been a fiercely independent career woman, overcoming her working-class background as her sister and his mother had never been able to do. Ronnie had admired her, even as a child, although he couldn’t say that he had known her well. Great-aunt Margaret hadn’t been a woman with a knack for children, and it was only in the last few years, with his mum gone, that he had begun to develop a relationship with her.

Unfortified even by his usual coffee—it was too cold in the kitchen to stand about while it brewed, much less drink it—he shrugged into his overcoat and headed for the door. But with his hand on the knob he hesitated, then, with another curse, turned back and picked up the single- malt whisky, red bow and all. He could always buy himself another—and better—bottle, but he couldn’t go calling on Christmas morning without a gift.

The private care home was on the outskirts of Crewe, in a neighborhood of quiet and prosperous semidetached houses. He knew the place wasn’t bad as far as care homes went—he’d had enough experience in his job with council-run establishments that skirted the health-code criteria—but no amount of wood polish and fresh flowers could quite disguise the underlying odor of human incontinence and decay.

It was early for visitors, but he knew the residents were given their breakfast at what Great-aunt Margaret always called an uncivilized hour, and he also knew that Margaret would be most alert early in the day.

Although the matron, a large and obnoxiously cheerful woman, greeted him with even more than her usual bonhomie, he’d taken the precaution of slipping the whisky bottle into a shopping bag. The residents were not supposed to have alcohol on the premises, but he sidled past Matron with a smile and not the slightest twinge of guilt.

He found Margaret alone in the residents’ sitting room, her chair tucked in beside a gaudy artificial tree. In a bright red woolen suit, she looked like a present left behind by an absentminded Father Christmas. Her fine white hair had been styled into a wreath of curls, her nails varnished in the same cheery color as her suit.

“You look fetching,” Ronnie told her, bending to kiss her papery cheek.

“For all the good it does me.” Her voice was still strong, with the slight huskiness he suspected was due to the unfiltered cigarettes he remembered her smoking when he was a child. Her bones, however, had felt fragile as dried twigs when he’d rested his hand on her shoulder, and she looked frailer than the last time he’d seen her.

“Where are the other inmates, then?” he asked, pulling the nearest chair a bit closer to her. It was one of their standing jokes, and she smiled appreciatively.

“Off enduring their families for the day, most of them. Makes me glad I’ve only you to torment me.” She never said she liked his visits, or asked when he was coming again, but he suddenly guessed that the bright suit, the nail varnish, the freshly styled hair were all in his honor. She had looked forward to his coming, and he felt a rush of shame.

To cover his discomfort, he rustled in the bag and revealed the

bottle of whisky. “Thought you might want to keep this a secret from Matron,” he whispered.

“Too bloody right,” agreed Margaret. Taking the bag from him, she tucked it beside her in the wheelchair and gave him a conspiratorial smile as she covered it with the rug she kept over her knees.

“There should be some use for being crippled, I always say.

“Now,” she said, fixing him with a beady gaze, “tell me what you’re doing here at this ungodly hour on your holiday. Has that wife of yours mended her ways?” Margaret had never had anything good to say about Peggy, but at least now Babcock wasn’t obligated to defend his ex-wife.

“Afraid not, Auntie.”

“Lucky for you,” she sniffed. “So it will be work, then, unless your prompt appearance is just an excuse for avoiding our little Christmas feast.”

Babcock colored, knowing he would have made an excuse if one hadn’t presented itself. Murder scenes were one thing, but meal-times at the care home were beyond his powers of endurance.

His struggle must have been apparent, because she sighed and said, “It’s all right, boy. I can’t say I blame you, especially considering the state of Reggie Pargetter’s bowels these days. Why don’t you tell me about your case?”

He could see no need for secrecy, as what little he knew would be public knowledge as soon as the local presses recovered from their Christmas hiatus. So he told her what they had found, and where, ending by saying, “I’m just on my way to Leighton for the postmortem.”

Margaret sat silently, her head bowed, for so long he thought she had lost the drift of the conversation, or perhaps even dozed.

But then she looked up, and he saw that although the lines in her face seemed etched more deeply than before, her eyes gleamed with understanding.

“It was an act of desperation,” she said softly. “Do you see? Whoever buried that child suffered an unthinkable grief.”

The dream began, as it always did, with Kit running through the Cambridgeshire cottage in search of his mother. He felt an increasing sense of urgency, but the rooms seemed to elongate ahead of him, as if he’d fallen into the wrong end of a telescope. He ran faster, his panic mounting as the rooms seemed to stretch into tunnels.

Suddenly the kitchen door appeared before him. He stopped, his chest aching, seized by a dread that froze his fingers even as he reached for the doorknob. His mother needed him, he told himself, but his hand felt leaden, his feet rooted to the floor. His mother needed him, he knew that, but he couldn’t make himself go farther.

Then, before he could back away, the door swung open of its own accord. Kit swayed as he saw the room before him. The floor and walls curved upwards like the sides of a bowl, and at the bottom lay his mother. She lay on her side, her knees drawn up, her head resting on one arm, as if she had just lain down for a nap.

It’s a cradle, he thought, the room was her cradle and it had rocked her to sleep. He would wake her. She was depending on him to wake her and he mustn’t fail.

But when he knelt beside her and brushed back the fine fair hair that had fallen across her face like a veil, he found that her skin was as blue as glacier ice, and felt as cold to the touch. The sound of his own scream echoed in his head.

Kit’s eyes sprang open and he kicked and pummeled the bedclothes as if he could free himself from the nightmare’s grip. As the cold air hit his sweat-soaked T-shirt, he shivered convulsively and came fully awake. For a moment, the dream’s disorientation continued, then he realized that not only was he not in the Grantchester cottage where he had grown up, but he wasn’t in his room in the

Notting Hill house, either. He was in Nantwich, at his grandparents’, in Duncan’s old room.

Jerking himself upright, he peered at Toby, still sleeping soundly in the next bed. Good. That meant he hadn’t screamed aloud. He didn’t want to think of the humiliation if he’d brought the whole bloody house running. He wiped his still-damp face with the corner of the duvet and considered the slice of light showing through the gap in the curtains. It seemed to be morning, but there was no sound of movement in the house, and Tess still slept curled in a hairy ball at his feet. Beside her lay a dark oblong. Squinting, Kit edged his foot closer to the object, until he could feel its weight and its odd-shaped lumps. His sudden spurt of fear resided and he felt an idiot.

It was a stocking. Now he saw that there was one across the foot of Toby’s bed as well. Someone had come in while they slept and left them. It was Christmas.

He started to reach for the stocking, but his hand trembled. He lay back, pulling the duvet up to his chin. The dream was still too close.

The wave of homesickness that swept over him was so intense that he bit back a groan. He wanted to be in London, in his own room, in his own bed, with familiar sounds and smells drifting up the stairs from the kitchen. Sid, their black cat, would nose open the door and stalk across the room with his tail waving, his way of telling Kit it was time to get up. Kit would go down and help with preparing the Christmas dinner, and their friends Wesley and Otto would drop by to exchange gifts while Gemma played the piano . . .

As hard as Kit tried to sustain it, the comforting fantasy evaporated. He knew too well that being home wouldn’t have stopped the dream—hadn’t stopped it these past few months. It had come often, in various guises, in the weeks after his mother’s death. Then the dream had faded and he had begun to hope it had gone for good, that he could tuck it away along with the images he couldn’t bear to remember.

But it had returned, in isolated snatches at first, then with more

detail and greater regularity. Now he counted the nights he didn’t have the dream as blessings, and he dreaded sleep. His heart was beginning to race again as the distorted scenes flashed through his mind, and he felt his throat close with the familiar choking nausea.

To distract himself, he looked round the room. Toby had pulled the covers up over his face, but a cowlick of blond hair rose from the top of the duvet like a feather, and Kit was glad of his sleeping presence.

It was a calm room, with French-blue walls and white trim. Kit wondered if it had looked this way when it had been his dad’s. There were a few framed prints of famous locomotives, but most of the available wall space was taken up by bookcases. He’d had a quick look at the titles the night before. There was science fi ction, fantasy, detective stories, as well as childhood classics he recognized, like Arthur Ransome’s Swallows and Amazons and the Narnia books, but he’d also seen volumes of history and biography and a book of famous trials. Were these things Duncan had read, or did Hugh use the room these days as storage?

Tess raised her head and yawned, showing her small pink tongue, then stretched and padded up the duvet to settle next to his side.

Freeing an arm from the covers to stroke her, Kit let his mind wander further. What had his dad been like when he’d slept in this room at thirteen? Had he known what he wanted to do with his life? Had he kept secrets from his parents, and got in trouble for it? Had there been a girl, like Lally?

But that idea made him flinch, and his hand fell still on the dog’s flank. He shouldn’t even be thinking of Lally that way. It was wrong.

She was his cousin, and his face flamed at the thought of anyone in the family discovering how he felt.

Besides, last night he’d realized what a fool he’d made of himself when he’d met Leo Dutton.

Things had started to go wrong after they’d got to Lally’s house.

They’d been in Sam’s room, admiring the younger boy’s collection

of Star Wars action figures with varying degrees of enthusiasm, when Lally had heard the sound of the front door.

“My dad,” she’d said, slipping from the room with the quickness of anticipation. Then Kit had heard raised voices, the words indistinguishable, and a few moments later Lally had come back in, much more slowly, her face shuttered.

With the same sort of sibling radar Kit sometimes experienced with Toby, Sam stopped in the midst of demonstrating an X-wing fighter and looked questioningly at his sister.

“Mum and Dad are having a row.” Lally had shrugged, as if it didn’t matter, and perched nonchalantly on the edge of Sam’s bed.

But after that there had been an edginess to the atmosphere and Lally had begun to tease her brother so mercilessly that Kit found himself coming to the younger boy’s defense.

Dinner was even worse. It was a relief when the meal was over and Lally pulled him aside, whispering, “Come on. We’ll say we’re going early to save seats at the church, but we’ll have time to have a smoke.”

“Smoke?” Kit said, before he could think to hide his surprise.

“Don’t sound so shocked.” Lally’s conspiratorial little smile turned to a pout. “Don’t tell me you don’t have a fag now and then.”

“No,” he said honestly. “I don’t like it.” He couldn’t tell her that the smell reminded him of his grandmother Eugenia, and made him feel physically ill.

Lally regarded him coolly. “Well, you can do what you want, as long as you’re not a telltale. Are you game?”

“Yes, okay,” he’d agreed, hoping that once they were away from the house she wouldn’t be so prickly. To his surprise, Sam had not asked to go with them, but had given Lally a look Kit couldn’t

fathom.

He had little opportunity to enjoy his time alone with Lally, however, as her mum had given her a package of leftover food to deliver to an elderly neighbor, and by the time the task had been

accomplished, she’d hurried him down the dark path into the town.

“I promised to meet a friend at the Crown—that’s the old coaching inn,” she explained as they reached the square.

Then, when the tall blond boy appeared from the shadowed archway that ran alongside the old pub, Kit gave a start of surprise.

He’d assumed the friend was female, and his heart sank.

“So this is the little coz,” the boy said, without introduction. He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, gave one to Lally, then extended the pack to Kit.

Jamming his hands farther into his pockets, Kit shook his head.

“No, thanks.” To Lally, he added, “What’s your friend’s name?”

“Leo.”

“Aw, it’s a sissy boy.” Leo’s smile showed even white teeth in his thin face. “It even has manners.”

Kit knew there was no good answer.

Unexpectedly, it was Lally who rescued him. “Leave it, Leo,” she said. “We don’t have much time.” She fished in her handbag and pulled out a disposable lighter.

“Did you bring my stuff?” Leo asked sharply, as if annoyed at her defection, and Lally looked up at him in surprise.

“We barely got out of the house. And it’s Christmas Eve, for Christ’s sake. We have to sit in church next to our parents in a half hour’s time. That’s pushing it, even for you.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, then cupped the tip of the cigarette with one hand while she flicked the lighter with the other.

The brief orange flare illuminated the planes of her face but left her eyes in darkness.

The smell of the burning tobacco was pungent in the cold air, and Kit had to stop himself backing up a pace. As Leo reached for the lighter and bent over his own cigarette, Kit took the opportunity to study him. In spite of the other boy’s height, he didn’t think Leo was actually much older than he was. There was a stretched quality to him, as if he’d grown faster than his bones could tolerate. His

blond hair was buzzed short, and he wore a navy wool peacoat that looked like those Kit had seen in expensive London shops. Kit was suddenly painfully aware of his serviceable padded anorak, bought a size too big so that it would fit over his uniform blazer. He looked like a geek—worse, a geek wearing hand- me-downs.

“Are you in the same class at school, then?” he asked, trying to mask his discomfort by taking the initiative.

Lally answered without looking at him. In spite of her bravado, she stood with her back to the arch of the old carriage entrance and kept her eyes on the square. “Yeah. We go to Marlborough School, not the comprehensive. We passed it on the way into town. But we were in primary school together, so we’ve known each other for yonks, since we were in nappies, practically.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Leo, mocking. “I’m sure I never wore the things.”

Was it possible that Lally and Leo weren’t a couple? Kit wondered. That if they’d known each other for years, they were just friends who hung out together? They hadn’t touched, or shown any signs of wanting to sneak off for a snog. Kit felt a leap of hope that he didn’t care to examine too closely.

“Oh, shit,” hissed Lally, startling Kit out of his daydream. Before he could respond, she grabbed him and yanked him back into the shadow of the archway, dropping her half-smoked cigarette to the ground in the process. “There’s my granddad. And your mum.”

“She’s not my mum,” Kit responded automatically, then felt a stab of guilt for disowning Gemma so publicly. “I mean—”

“Did they see us?” Lally interrupted, her voice rising.

Leo looked casually out towards the square. “Don’t think so.

They’ve gone on, although the woman looked back. So that’s your stepmum?” he said to Kit, his eyebrows raised in appreciation.

“Yeah,” Kit answered shortly. Not only did he not intend to explain his complicated family situation to Leo, he felt protective of Gemma. He hadn’t liked Leo’s salacious leer one bit. He was about

to add “Mind your own business” when he caught sight of Lally’s tense face. For someone who had said she didn’t care what her parents thought, she was awfully worried about getting caught.

“We’d better get to the church,” she said. “There’ll be hell to pay if there aren’t any seats left.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something to explain it, Lally, darling.” Leo’s grin was knowing. “You’re good at making up stories.”

Kit thought he saw Lally’s face darken at the dig, but instead of answering, she peeked out to ensure that the coast was clear, then towed him across the square, leaving Leo to trail in their wake.

When they reached the church, the pews were already filling and Lally swore again, this time under her breath. As she craned her neck, trying to find the best spot, Leo said, “I’d better find my dad, then. He’s expecting me to meet and greet and press the old birds’

willing flesh.”

“Leo, that’s disgusting,” whispered Lally, but she was distracted by her search for seats.

“Get your dad to let you come to my house tomorrow,” said Leo, unperturbed. “We’ll show coz here a good time.” With that worrying remark he’d disappeared, and Kit had watched with a frown as the other boy slipped through the crowd.

Now, in the clear light of morning, the prospect had not improved.

Kit had had enough experience with boys like Leo at school—they had made his last few months a misery. He knew he was on dangerous ground, that if he made one wrong step, Leo would crucify him in front of Lally.

A sleepy voice interrupted his troubled thoughts. “Is that bacon?” said Toby as he threw back his covers and sat up, his hair standing on end like a little blond hedgehog. Kit realized that beneath his preoccupation he’d been aware of the smell of bacon frying, too, and his stomach rumbled in response.

The house hold was stirring. Kit could smell coffee, now, too, and hear an occasional muted laugh from downstairs. It was time to get

up, to see what the day had brought, and he found he was glad of an excuse to think of nothing more complicated than presents and food for a few hours.

“Look, Toby,” he said as his brother spied the stocking, “Father Christmas found you after all.”

The distinctive low-throated rhythm of a diesel engine came first, then the rocking wash that followed the passage of another boat through the canal basin.

Annie, who on the boat usually woke with the dawn, opened her eyes and blinked against the brilliance of the light spilling through the window over her bed. For a moment she felt disoriented, then memory flooded back. It was Christmas, and she had been late back from the midnight mass at St. Mary’s the night before.

She lay quietly, letting her eyes become accustomed to the light, enjoying an unexpected sense of well- being. She had, she realized, slept deeply and dreamlessly for the first time in months. Had it been the singing? If so, she should do it more often. She’d wanted to sing as a child, but it hadn’t been an accomplishment her parents thought important.

When her need for coffee overcame her unaccustomed laziness, she threw back the covers and pulled on several layers of fl eece.

First she turned up the central heating, sending up a silent prayer of thanks for generators, then she stoked the woodstove. Assured that the ambient temperature in the boat would eventually rise above arctic, she put water on to boil and ground her coffee beans.

Fresh filter coffee was one of the small luxuries she allowed herself. Even though she’d read somewhere recently that fi lter pressed was less healthful than coffee brewed using drip or percolation, she loved the thick, syrupy strength of it. She drank it without sugar, but when she could get cream, she kept a small carton in the boat’s fridge. Marina shops weren’t always that well stocked, and not all

towns on the canal system offered moorings as convenient to the shops as Nantwich.

With her coffee in hand, she opened the salon door and stepped out onto the deck. Sun glinted off snow on the towpath, and from the accumulation on the decks and roofs of the unoccupied boats.

Although the weather had cleared, the temperature had not risen enough to cause a significant melt. The basin seemed oddly deserted, even considering the weather. No smoke rose from any chimney other than hers, and there was no movement on the towpath.

Of course, those who kept the narrowboats as second homes would be spending Christmas in their primary residences, and even most of those who lived marginal lives on the boats had someone to go to at Christmas.

Not that she’d been without an invitation, she reminded herself as the abyss of self- pity cracked open before her. Roger had asked her to come, as he always did, and she had refused, as she always did. What would he do with her, she wondered with grim amusement, if she should change her mind?

He had stayed in her family home when they had separated. It had seemed a sensible solution to her at the time, as she wasn’t ready to sell the property but didn’t want to leave it unattended. He paid her a nominal rent, and she’d told him that if they divorced and decided to sell, she would give him first option to buy the place. She didn’t like to think that only self- interest had kept Roger from dissolving their marriage, although she knew that, realistically, it was unlikely he could ever pay her what the house was worth.

Nor could she deceive herself into thinking he missed her terribly.

Roger was an even- tempered man who disliked disruption as much as he liked his creature comforts—living with her had not been easy for him. Still, he was thoughtful when it suited him, and she remembered that he had sent her a Christmas gift.

Nipping back inside, she retrieved the package from the drawer where she had stowed it and took it out into the sunshine. It was

neatly wrapped in hand- printed paper, and she felt sure Roger had done it himself. He was a competent, thorough man with an artistic flair, all qualities that made him a good journalist—and a good husband. It was she who had not been able to function in the marriage.

Carefully, she pulled loose the package’s taped ends and peeled the paper off without tearing it. “Oh!” she said aloud as the gift slipped from its wrappings. That it was a book didn’t surprise her—

that much she’d guessed from the package’s shape and weight—but this she hadn’t expected. Checking the flyleaf, she saw that it was a first edition of Tom Rolt’s Narrow Boat, printed in . The book, an account of the author’s exploration of the canal system on his refurbished narrowboat, the Cressy, was one of the seminal books on boating life, and Rolt himself had been one of the founders of the Inland Waterways Association.

Annie owned a modern copy, of course, and had reread it many times for its lyrical prose and haunting evocation of bygone days on the canals, but she had never seen an original edition. How like Roger to have found it for her—she would have to ring and thank him. Perhaps she’d even suggest they meet for a holiday meal.

Slowly, she leafed through the volume, examining the woodcuts that prefaced each chapter. The artist, Denys Watkins-Pitchford, had captured the essence of life on the canals with a lovely economy of shape and line. She remembered reading in her modern edition that the drawings had been based on photographs taken by Angela Rolt, Tom’s wife.

There was a traditional Buckby water can, the top lock at Fox-ton, a heron poised in marshy grass, the long-vanished ware house that had spanned the Shropshire Union Canal at Barbridge . . . As Annie gazed at the images, they brought back all the enchantment she had felt at her first introduction to boating life, and that she had owed entirely to her contact with Gabriel Wain and his family.

Of course, she had seen the canals and boats all her life, had occasionally walked a towpath or stopped to watch a boat going through

a lock at Audlem. But she had never set foot on a narrowboat until the day she had been sent to interview the Wains.

How odd that she should have seen them again just yesterday, after all these years. The worry that had nagged at her then returned with full force. The system had betrayed the Wains, and she had failed to protect them.

Her own disillusionment was still sour in her mouth. She had been driven to social work by a profound guilt because of her own privileged upbringing, and by a hope that she could fill a void in herself by giving something to others. But over the years the hopelessness of the work had eaten away her youthful optimism. She saw so much pain and misery and cruelty that she felt the weight of it would crush her, all her actions a remedy as futile as trying to stem a flood with a finger in the dike.

When a child she’d had removed from his own family had died from abuse inflicted by his foster father, she had wondered how long she could go on. Then what had happened to the Wains had been the last straw.

She had walked away, shutting herself off from human contact like a crab crawling into its shell, but the damage had gone on around her. Rowan Wain and her family were still at risk.

Could Annie live with herself if she turned away again? But if she tried to help them, had she anything to offer? Had she the strength to emerge from her self- imposed cocoon?

The revelation came suddenly. It didn’t matter whether or not she was up to the task, or whether her infinitesimal actions would make a dent in the world’s ills. All that counted was that she should act.