light on the child’s face, but found it as inexpressive as the rest of her. It was impossible to tell whether, in life, these blunt and unfinished features had borne the imprint of prettiness, timid watchfulness or sly mischief. If there had once been curiosity or placidity or impatience here, life had not had time to etch it into permanence.
Only a very short time ago – two hours or not much more – the body and soul of this little girl had still been securely united. At this thought, and despite all her training, all her experience, Rita found herself suddenly in the grip of a storm of feeling. Not for the first time since they had parted company, she wished for God. God who, in her childhood years, had seen all, known all, understood all. How simple it had been when, ignorant and confused, she could nonetheless put her faith in a Father who enjoyed perfect understanding of all things. She had been able to bear not knowing a thing when she could be sure that God knew. But now …
She took the child’s hand – the perfect hand with its five perfect fingers and their perfect fingernails – laid it in her open palm and closed her other hand over it.
This is wrong! All wrong! It should not be so!
And that is when it happened.
The Miracle
BEFORE MARGOT PLUNGED the injured man’s clothes into the bucket of fresh water, Jonathan went through his pockets. They gave up:
One purse swollen with water, containing a sum of money that would cover all kinds of expenses and still stand them all a drink when he was feeling better.
One handkerchief, sodden.
One pipe, unbroken, and a tin of tobacco. They prised open the lid and found the contents to be dry. ‘He’ll be glad of that, at least,’ they noted.
One ring, to which were linked a number of dainty tools and implements over which they puzzled – was he a clock-mender? they wondered. A locksmith? A burglar? – until the next item was drawn out.
One photograph. And then they remembered the dark stains on the man’s fingers and Rita’s idea that he might be a photographer, and this seemed to lend weight to it. The tools must be something to do with the man’s profession.
Joe took the photograph from his son and dabbed it gently with his woollen cuff to dry it.
It showed a corner of a field, an ash tree, and not a lot else.
‘I’ve seen prettier pictures,’ someone said.
‘It wants a church spire or a thatched cottage,’ said another.
‘It don’t seem to be a photograph of anything exactly,’ a third said, scratching his head in perplexity.
‘Trewsbury Mead,’ said Joe, the only one to recognize it.
They didn’t know what to say, so they shrugged and put the photograph on the mantel to dry and went on to the next and last item to come out of the man’s pockets, which was:
One tin box, in which was a wad of small cards. They peeled off the top one and handed it to Owen, the best reader of them all, who raised a candle and read aloud:
Henry Daunt of Oxford
Portraits, landscapes, city and country scenes
Also: postcards, guide books, picture frames
Thames scenes a speciality
‘She was right,’ they exclaimed. ‘She said he were a photographer, and here’s the proof of it.’
Then Owen read out an address on Oxford’s High Street.
‘Who will be going to Oxford tomorrow?’ Margot asked. ‘Anybody know?’
‘My sister’s husband runs the cheese barge,’ a gravel-digger suggested. ‘I don’t mind going to her house tonight and asking him.’
‘Barge’ll take two days, won’t it?’
‘Can’t leave his family worrying about him for two days.’
‘Surely he won’t be going tomorrow, your sister’s husband? If he did, he wouldn’t be back in time for Christmas.’
‘The railway, then.’
It was decided that Martins would go. He was not wanted at the farm tomorrow, and he had a sister living five minutes from the station at Lechlade. He would go to her house now, to be on hand for the early train. Margot gave him the fare, he repeated the address till he knew it, and set off, with a shilling in his pocket and a brand-new story on his tongue. He had six miles of riverbank along which to rehearse his tale, and by the time he got to his sister’s house he would have it to perfection.
The other drinkers lingered. Storytelling of the usual kind was over for the night – who would stop to tell a story when one