A Tarnished Life

About the Author

Geraldine Stevens was born and grew up in Essex but has lived most of her life abroad. Eager to see something of the world, at the age of eighteen she moved to Germany, where she took a degree at Hamburg University. She continued her career in teaching in Italy. A love of storytelling and a creative writing course spurred her to put pen to paper and write her first novel, A Tarnished Life. Geraldine has three grown-up sons and now lives in Sardinia with her Italian husband. She is an honorary member of Trinity College, London.

Dedication

For my family.

Copyright Information ©

Geraldine Stevens 2024

The right of Geraldine Stevens to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035862399 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035862405 (ePub e-book)

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First Published 2024

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Acknowledgement

A special thanks to my brother Stephen for his invaluable help with this book and to my dear friend Dorothy Green, without whose encouragement it probably would not have been written. I would also like to thank my sister Cath for her expert advice and, last but not least, Anna, Lorraine, Lorna and Beth for their generous support.

Honesty is telling the truth to ourselves and others. Integrity is living that truth.

—Kenneth H. Blanchard

Prologue

The afternoon was drawing to a close and the last rays of sunlight forced their way into the basement through the thick curtain of cobwebs covering the tiny window. Most of the room remained in the shadows, but as if on stage, the spotlight fell on the tiny, emaciated figure curled up on the filthy mattress. Instinctively, to protect her eyes from its harsh beam, the woman raised a thin arm towards the dust motes swirling in the air as if she wished to join them in a macabre ballet.

#

She did not know how long she had been dozing as the days and nights seemed to pass in a blur of greyness, shades of light, then greyness and finally darkness again. The only clock in the room had stopped God knows when and its hands were held fast in the silken threads of a spider’s domain. It was becoming chilly and the light was fading, gradually surrendering to the gloom which would pervade the room and hide the squalor until in turn it would succumb to blackness. If he were coming, it would be soon. He only came after dark, never before.

She listened for the sound of a key grating in the lock, the sound of muffled footsteps approaching. She tried to recall when he had last been, was it yesterday or the day before? All she could remember was that she had screamed a string of abuse at him. As always, he had simply placed the frugal provisions, obscure plastic triangles, fruit and bottled water, on the table amidst the chaos. As was his wont, he gave no reaction to her outburst but merely looked at her in a way she couldn’t quite decipher: had she detected a hint of disgust? She decided that this time she would try a more conciliatory approach. Maybe then he would stay and talk to her for a while instead of turning on his heel and disappearing into the night the way he had come. She had no way of knowing how much time had passed but now the room was cloaked in darkness. All her resolve melted away in the heat of her anger: it was obvious he wasn’t coming.

She dragged herself to her feet. A wave of nausea overcame her as she stumbled towards the wall groping for the light switch. A naked bulb caked in grime made a feeble attempt to shed some light on her surroundings to little avail perhaps it was just as well. On pulling the plastic triangles apart, the smell of mouldy sandwiches containing goodness knows what assailed her nostrils, although she had little sense of smell. Feeling sick and giddy, she settled for an overripe banana and found what she had really been looking for. She took a generous swig of the clear liquid and almost gagged as the fire hit her stomach. Clutching the bottle to her chest lest she let it drop, hesitant steps led her back to her haven. She lay down and pulled the soiled blanket up over herself and waited for fitful sleep to claim her.

When she awoke sometime later, the room was shrouded in a cold, clammy blackness that made her shiver. Trapped in the bleakness of her existence, a wave of loneliness swept over her. But it hadn’t always been like this…

Sunningdale Avenue

She had been happy as a child. Best of all, she liked the afternoons spent with her family, especially on those long winter days when it was cold and miserable outside. It was always warm and cosy in the back parlour and they all gathered near the fire. Her mother usually sat in her chair with some sewing in her lap and the cat purring at her feet. Dad would be down at the docks and her brothers would either be squabbling over something or playing some game or other. If they had no schoolwork to do, she and her sisters, Edie and Maggie, would be dressing their dolls or drawing pictures.

She remembered one particular afternoon. She must have been about seven or eight. It was bitterly cold outside and the wind was wailing like the neighbour’s scruffy, old, ginger tom, Rufus, when he met another cat on the prowl. Branches tapped at the window like bony fingers begging to be let in to share the warmth of the fire burning in the grate. Every so often, a gust of wind found its way down the chimney causing the glowing coals to flare up for a moment. As quickly as they had sprung to life, the flames died down again leaving a puff of smoke in their wake. The smell of smoke hung in the air battling with the cheesy odour emanating from her brothers’ socks.

George and Ted were sprawled on the hearthrug playing snakes and ladders. Emma was sitting beside Maggie helping her count on her abacus. Maggie’s pretty face was creased in a frown of concentration because although she was turned five, she found it difficult to move the brightly coloured beads one by one. From time to time, Mum looked up from her sewing and smiled in encouragement.

‘… Seven, eight, nine, ten. Done it!’ Maggie clapped her hands in a round of self-applause grinning like a cat with the cream.

‘Well done!’ they had all cried out in unison.

‘Enough counting. Now let’s read,’ Maggie had said in her slightly slurred way of speaking. She pulled herself to her feet and took a few uncertain steps forward before stumbling and sending the snakes-and-ladders board flying.

‘Careful, Maggie!’ her mother’s voice called out in warning. Mum’s arm had shot out instinctively to grab her arm, but too late. She staggered and fell, narrowly missing the corner of the table. As if mesmerised, they had all stared open-mouthed as her head hit the floor with a sickening thud and she yelped with shock and pain. The sound broke the spell and they were all galvanised into action: George pulled her to her feet; Ted ran to the scullery to fetch a wet cloth and Mum swept her up and cradled her in her arms. Edie appeared from nowhere and gently pressed the cool compress on the purple swelling on Maggie’s forehead. Then they all made comforting noises and kissed the lump better.

When her sobs finally ceased, Mum suggested she fetch a book and they read a story together. Maggie was never sad or miserable for long and her eyes lit up as a smile spread across her little, tear-stained face. Off she went to get her favourite collection of fairy tales. The boys salvaged their game and moved it out of harm’s way as Maggie teetered back towards them in her strange, lopsided gait, thin arms and legs flailing like those of a drunken spider. The incident forgotten, she flopped down on the hearthrug like a ragdoll and their mother started reading Cinderella to them. Maggie squealed with pleasure when they got to the bit about the fairy turning the pumpkin into a carriage and the mice into footmen. George and Ted made her laugh by pretending they were mice, squeaking and twitching their noses.

Just before teatime, they heard the front door open and footsteps in the hall. Dad was home from work. Story forgotten, they all gathered around him and he ruffled the boys’ dark heads and bent to kiss the girls. His eye fell on the angry bruise and he swept Maggie up into his arms, mumbling ‘Oh, Maggie’ into her auburn curls. Then he tickled her tummy and said how brave his little girl was.

Somehow, Maggie always ended up being at the centre of everyone’s attention.

#

It was strange how one could recall certain things in such vivid detail like this episode. Other times recollections were only partial or hazy. Nonetheless, when she was unable to sleep or feeling particularly lonely, Emma sought comfort in these trips down memory lane. Forcing herself to remember things long-forgotten provided her with purpose and helped pass the time and overcome the silence that cloaked her like a shroud.

#

In Sunningdale Avenue, there was always a faint melody of sounds and voices. Even at night you could hear the muffled clickety-clack of the trains on the nearby railway line and the shrill whistle as they approached the station. The angry hiss and screech of the brakes would tell them that the train had ground to a halt at Barking station. Emma and her brothers and sisters used to sneak into each other’s rooms and lie awake listening to the soothing rhythm and trying to count the number of carriages behind the engine: clickety-clack, clickety-clack for each set of wheels followed by a tiny pause or clanging noise as the coupling went by and then clickety-clack as the next carriage approached.

They would imagine passengers peering out of the windows into the darkness trying to catch a glimpse of what went on behind the curtains in the houses that lined the tracks. They took it in turns to create the faces pressed against the carriage windows. George and Ted came up with the most outrageous characters, such as Mr Theodor Toadwrestler, a little, fat man with bulging eyes and a hairy wart on his bulbous nose. He wore a bright green and mustard tartan waistcoat that stretched alarmingly across his potbelly and when he sneezed the buttons would pop off one by one. After each flight of imagination, they would all dissolve in fits of giggles smothered under pillows lest Mum should come up and give them a good telling-off.

Sometimes Dad wouldn’t come home from his shift down at the docks until long after their bedtime. Emma knew that when he did finally come home, no matter how late or how tired he was, he would creep into their rooms and place a kiss on each sleeping child’s brow and tuck them in. Because she so wanted to wish him goodnight, time after time Emma lay awake listening to the night sounds and trying to fight the drowsiness that threatened to overwhelm her. As he bent to kiss her, she would catch a slight waft of tobacco and Brylcreem. She loved that smell and much later she was also to associate it with her brothers. When her mother put them to bed, she smelt vaguely of soap. It was funny how sounds and smells remained so vivid in her mind. On foggy nights, you could hear the melancholy lament of the foghorns from the vessels feeling their way up Barking Creek. She told herself her father had asked the captain to call out to her as he went on his way. Comforted, she would let her eyelids droop and surrender herself to slumber.

Their house was in a quiet side street off Ripple Road. The road was not very long and lined on both sides by rows of terraced houses with bay windows. There was a postage-stamp garden at the front of each house and a path leading to the front door. All the houses were practically identical, a mirror image of the one next to them. Only the colour of the front door changed and how shiny the front step was, depending how much elbow grease the proud housewife put into scrubbing and polishing it. They had lots of other children to play with as most of the families had children of the same age as them. The street was a popular playground for all the kids, and until dusk the shouts from the ball games and hide-and-seek echoed around the estate. At teatime, shouts of I won’t tell you again or just wait until your father gets home resounded in the air as mothers rounded up their recalcitrant offspring, the last stragglers howling as they were encouraged on their way by a clip round the ear.

Emma searched in her mind to recall the smallest detail of the interior of the house as it was then. When you walked through the front door, a steep staircase led upstairs to the bedrooms. Their parents’ bedroom was at the front of the house above the best room and light streamed in through the large bay window. Emma shared the room across the landing from their bedroom with her sisters, Edie and Maggie. George and Ted slept in the room at the end of the landing. All the rooms were spartanly furnished in very much the same way with beds and a cupboard. There was also a fireplace, but the fires were never lit even in the coldest of winters. They put hot-water bottles in their beds to take the chill off the sheets when it got very cold.

She remembered how unpleasant it felt if your feet touched it once the water had grown cold. She imagined that the cold, clammy skin of a reptile would feel very much the same. There was no toilet upstairs and they had a chamber pot for emergencies but nobody liked using it unless they absolutely had to. Nobody but Maggie, that is. Getting her up and down the stairs was difficult at the best of times. Come to think of it, perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing after all because it meant she couldn’t go upstairs alone to play. Otherwise, without meaning to, she probably would have broken something like the treasured doll’s house her father had made for them one Christmas.

Having said that, as children they had all hated having to fumble their way downstairs out into the cold, dark privy. Who knew what horrible things were lurking out there. From creepies and crawlies, long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night, may the good Lord deliver us!

#

Downstairs, when you came through the front door and into the passage, the front parlour was on the right. It was the best room and hardly every used except on special occasions. Although it had a large bay window and caught the sun during the day, Emma never considered it to be welcoming. On the other hand, it held a fascination for her and was mysterious simply because it was out of bounds to them when they were kids and woe betide anyone who sneaked in. Times out of number they defied their mother and slipped in there as a dare or simply to tremble with excitement at the thought of getting caught.

Like all the furniture in the house, the sideboard, large oak table and stiff-backed chairs were dark and heavy. In the middle of the table, on a crocheted centrepiece, stood a blue and white ceramic pot with a plant in it. Try as she might, Emma couldn’t for the life of her remember what kind of plant it was, something with green fronds anyway. At least, it made the room look a bit less austere. On the highly polished sideboard, you could see your refection in the surface, stood a vase in the same blue and white design, which her mother rarely filled with flowers.

A lot of sepia family photographs vied for pride of place on either side of the vase. One picture captured her attention over and over again. It showed a very pretty young woman with ringlets framing her face. Her head was turned towards the infant she was cradling in her arms and the adoration in her eyes was tangible. Emma would often surreptitiously enter the room on tiptoe just to gaze in wonder at her rapt countenance. One day she was helping to dust the furniture and her mother suddenly looked very sad and said, ‘That is my youngest sister, Violet. You have never met her because she died of pneumonia. In the photograph, she is holding you when you were a tiny baby. You look just like her when she was your age.’

Across the hall from the front parlour at the foot of the stairs, there was a coat rack. Nothing unusual about that you might think, but Emma remembered it vividly because of her mother’s visitors hat. It was a very unattractive, floppy creation of black felt with a wicked hatpin. Whenever somebody knocked at the door, her mother would put the hat on before she opened it. If the visitor was someone that she was pleased to see, she would say, ‘Hello, I have just come in!’ If, on the other hand, the caller was not welcome, she would say, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I was just going out!’

The back parlour was down two steps at the end of the hallway. The family spent most of their time in there, especially in the winter because the fire made it the warmest room in the house. Her father always sat at the head of the large, rectangular table under the window. His chair was between the table and the sideboard on which the radio stood. Dad always sat there so that he could stretch out his stiff leg without tripping people up. The rest of the family would either gather round the fire or be spread out around the room doing whatever took their fancy.

Sometimes Dad would tell them stories and then Emma and Maggie would sit on his lap; well, Maggie would sit on his lap because he only had half a lap to sit on. He couldn’t bend his other leg and so Emma used to lean against it and he would put his arm around her. Unless she was busy in the scullery or elsewhere in the house, her mother could usually be found bent over her sewing or knitting. She made most of their clothes and also took in sewing for other people to help make ends meet.

The scullery was where her mother did the cooking on the range or did the washing in the huge copper. There was a sink and a few cupboards but little else. In the winter, it was freezing out there unless the range had been lit. Even colder was the privy. You had to step outside the back door and into the garden if you needed to go to the loo. It was smelly in there as well. Emma and Maggie hated having to go out there after dark.

#

Daylight was fading fast and would soon surrender to nightfall. Surely he would put in an appearance soon. Loneliness forced itself on her and swept away her reveries. She wouldn’t go for him this time she told herself. That way he might stay for a while and tell her about his day. It wasn’t long before she heard his key grating in the lock and footsteps approaching in the hall. She braced herself in readiness to capture his mood.

‘Hi there. I thought you weren’t coming after all.’ No, she hadn’t meant it to sound like that, petulant and reproachful. ‘It’s just that I can never go out and see anyone.’

His eyes darkened and his jaw tightened. ‘Why do you suppose I lock all the doors? And where on earth would you go anyway?’ Then his expression softened somewhat and he said gruffly, ‘I have brought you a thermos of hot soup, some bread and cheese, fruit, oh and some chocolate as well as the usual stuff. That should tide you over.’

It was the usual stuff that interested her most. After plenty of tantrums and wheedling, he had had to give way on that. He approached with the intention of helping her to her feet. As he came closer, his nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘Bloody hell, you’ve wet yourself again.’ Whatever his former intentions had been, he pulled her roughly to her feet and dragged her towards the tiny bathroom. Ignoring her protests, he turned on the taps and began to strip her of her clothing.

She wept with humiliation and struggled to free herself from his grasp. To no avail, he was much too strong for her. ‘How dare you? You rotten beast!’ She sank her teeth into his wrist but still he didn’t loosen his grip and simply slapped her hard on her backside like a naughty child. All the fight went out of her and she submitted meekly to being washed from head to toe.

Then he wrapped her in a towel and said, ‘I’ll find you something to wear.’

With that, he took himself off and started rummaging around looking for suitable garments. While she stood there waiting for him to return, she caught a glimpse of herself in the cracked, fly-spotted mirror. She hardly recognised the woman staring back at her. The once thick, silky auburn curls had been replaced by wispy strands streaked with grey. The result of years of dyeing and neglect. Gone was the soft, peachy glow of her skin and a sallow, wrinkled face was reflected in the mirror. Her once full, enticing lips were now drawn in a thin line. The large, hazel eyes were still the same, well, perhaps more sunken and not quite as bright. Dark smudges like bruises circled them and it was difficult to say how old she really was.

The beginning of a bitter, little smile played at the corners of her mouth. She was thirty-nine and had been for ages. As soon as she had reached what she considered to be an acceptable age limit, she had never budged from there. His return turned her attention to the effort of getting dressed. Although she would never admit it, she felt better for his ministrations. In an attempt to win him over, she sat down to a cup of soup in the hope he would keep her company for a bit. Nothing doing.

‘I’ll be off then.’

‘Yeah, sod off,’ she mouthed to his retreating back. She almost giggled at her own daring: she would never have used that kind of language before Sam Doyle. Left to her own devices again, she downed the rest of her soup and ate some chocolate and turned eagerly to the usual stuff.

#

Where was she before he turned up? Ah, yes. She was back in Sunningdale Avenue and about to go out into the garden…

The back garden wasn’t very wide but quite long. It was separated from the neighbours on all sides by a high wooden fence. You could see over the fence and into their gardens only if you were upstairs. A narrow strip of concrete ran along one side of the house, the length of the back parlour. In the colder months, there was always a huge heap of coal piled against the fence. She remembered how her mother almost wept every time coal was delivered. The coalman came every fortnight or so. He would call ‘Whoa, Blacky!’ and the cart would stop in the street outside the house. His huge horse stood dejectedly hanging his head and puffing clouds of vapour from his flared nostrils like a spent dragon.

Emma and some of the braver local kids used to pull up handfuls of grass and take it to Blacky, not exactly a very original name. The big, old horse would lower his head and look at them with gentle, liquid eyes as he delicately nibbled at their offerings. He never moved an inch and let them pat his head and enormous shoulder. The coalman used to heave the heavy coal sacks onto his shoulders. He was filthy from head to foot and only thing you could distinguish were the whites of his eyes and his teeth if he smiled.

Not that he had much to be cheerful about. The coal dust was ingrained in his skin and Emma doubted that he every came really clean however hard he scrubbed himself. Back bent and straining under the weight of his burden, he would trudge right through the house leaving a trail of black, greasy footprints in his wake, especially if it was raining. The hallway was narrow and more often than not, he would paint a black snake along the wall, too. Outside he emptied the sacks of coal onto the concrete with an ominous rumble and a cloud of dust, which settled on the window and just about everywhere else. Then he tramped back the way he had come to repeat the process umpteen times. Her mother always viewed the mess in despair before she psyched herself up to gather buckets, rags and an array of other equipment to attack the enemy. Both the front and back doors were opened and an icy draught blew unhindered through the house. After an hour or so, things went back to normal until the next time.

The rest of the garden was more or less divided into three strips from the house to the fence at the far end. To the left and the right, the wooden fences were flanked by plots of earth: vegetables on the left and flowers on the right. An old, gnarled cooking-apple tree stood proudly about halfway down the garden. How pretty it looked in the spring in a haze of delicate pink blossom. There was also a cherry tree which provided a generous crop of juicy, red fruit. Every year a fierce battle ensued between the family and the birds, especially the starlings which would gather noisily on the top of the fence or swoop down in overt defiance into the highest branches of the tree to peck at the ripest cherries. Gooseberries and blackcurrants joined the tangle of plants.

The middle strip was given over to a rather tatty lawn. Ball games and hopscotch were banned to the street, but as children they spent a lot of time in the garden in the good weather. Dad had made them a swing and hung it from the thickest branch of the old apple tree. Emma loved sitting on the swing soaring higher and higher until she could look over the fences, and in her imagination, join the birds as they flitted through the air. She felt a rush of adrenaline and a sense of freedom.

Maggie was only little and a bit afraid of the swing, so usually Emma had it to herself. Sometimes George or Edie would sit on the swing with Maggie on their lap and then she squeaked with delight as they swayed backwards and forwards in a wide upward arc. Otherwise, she always gave the swing a wide berth, until that fateful day…

Maggie

At first Emma had hardly noticed the change in her mother, not surprising really when you think about it. She was only three when Maggie was born. One morning, however, while she was preparing their breakfast, her mother gasped and bent double holding her tummy. Then she called Edie to her with a sharp intake of breath and told her to fetch Mrs B. from next door and then to run to the wharf and tell her father to come home. Within minutes, Mrs B. arrived and bustled them all off upstairs. Not long afterwards their father arrived with another woman that Emma had never seen before. Mrs B. took them to her house and told them that when they went home, they would have a new baby brother or sister. Emma so wanted a little sister. Edie was much older than she was and her brothers only played boys’ games.

Soon Emma was sitting in Mrs B’s kitchen crying and putting her little hands over her ears in an attempt to block out the screams from next door. She was terrified and felt so small and helpless, convinced that the strange woman was hurting her mother somehow. She passed most of the day in abject misery until their father came for them. Emma’s serious little face was red and blotched from so much crying. Dad picked her up and carried her home saying a lovely little surprise was waiting for her. They all tiptoed into their parent’s bedroom and peeped into the big bed where her mother lay cradling a tiny infant in her arms.

She smiled at Emma and patted the bed by her side. ‘Come here, Emma. Come and meet your little sister, Maggie.’ Emma scrambled up eagerly. ‘Careful, Emma!’ She gazed in wonder at the tiny bundle in her mother’s arms. She was delighted that the baby was a little girl but disappointed at the same time: she wouldn’t be able to play with her after all. She looked at her father, seeking reassurance. He was stroking the baby’s cheek with his finger but one glance at Emma’s disappointed expression and he understood at once what was troubling her.

‘Just you wait, my dear. She will grow really quickly and soon she will be wanting your toys. Until then, promise me you will help us take care of her.’ Emma, who could deny her father nothing, nodded earnestly in agreement. ‘That’s my girl!’

Over the next couple of days, there was an endless procession of people coming to coo over the new arrival. Emma felt very left out. Everybody said how beautiful the baby was but Emma couldn’t understand why. The baby had a tiny, red, wrinkled face like next door’s tortoise. Not that you could see much of her anyway. She was wrapped in a blanket and a woolly bonnet covered her hair, almost reaching her eyes. Most of the time they were closed and she made funny little noises as she slept. Sometimes she opened her eyes for a moment only to screw them tightly shut again as she opened her mouth to scream.

Even that was funny: she had no teeth! Whenever Maggie cried everybody jumped to attention, especially her mother who seemed to do nothing else but fuss around the baby. Often she was very smelly because she had wet or, worse still, messed herself. Emma felt very grown-up. She never did that…well, hardly ever!

#

Emma had to smile at these early memories because true to her father’s words, Maggie was soon toddling through the house. Maggie followed her everywhere and Emma adored her little sister, whom she treated like a precious china doll. She was so pretty in her frilly dresses, smaller versions of her own that their mother made for them. Maggie had huge hazel eyes and long auburn curls, similar in colour to her own. She was such a happy little soul and hardly ever cried, even when she fell and hurt herself. Kissing the graze or bruise better was enough to make her smile again through her tears and return to her usual bubbly self. That is why everybody thought it strange that early one summer she became fretful and what her father would call a whinge bucket.

#

They had all spent a sleepless night because Maggie had tossed and turned whimpering in her bed. In the morning, tired and irritable, they went about their daily chores. Maggie was particularly clingy and fractious and so their mother sighed with relief when Emma suggested they go outside to play with their dolls. It wasn’t long, however, before Maggie started crying and insisting she wanted to sit on the swing. Emma didn’t really know what to do, but in the end she gave in and helped Maggie up onto the swing and showed her how to hold on to the ropes tightly. She gave her a few small shoves and the swing began to move to and fro.

Emma wasn’t strong enough to push the swing very high, but suddenly Maggie’s arms just seemed to go limp and her grip on the ropes slackened. She gave a little stifled cry as she let go altogether and Emma watched horrified as Maggie sailed through the air and landed on the grass in a crumpled head a few feet from the swing. She lay there with her mouth open and clawing at the air but making no sound. Then a stifled wail emerged from her throat, rising in a crescendo to an ear-splitting scream which left Emma rooted to the spot and brought their mother flying out into the garden. She turned to Emma and was about to reprimand her but then thought better of it. Still the reproach was there in her eyes as she picked her daughter up and took her inside. Emma recalled how the sense of blame had engulfed her. She was still crouching under the swing in a little heap of misery until after dusk when Edie came to call her inside.

Much to everyone’s surprise, Maggie wasn’t badly hurt after all, just the odd scratch and a few bruises, but she was badly shaken. The whole family was. They all thought that Maggie would bounce back as usual by the morning, but it didn’t happen. At first, she was just restless and kept saying she was tired. Then she complained of a sore throat and tummy ache. Soon she was hot and feverish. She lay apathetically between the crumpled sheets, her pinched, red face in sharp contrast to their whiteness, one little arm around Mrs Tiggy-winkle. They all took it in