residents called Matthew this morning, and he seemed very nice.’
‘I want to meet new people, too,’ Skye says.
‘And you will. But we’ve only just got here and there are lots of jobs to do and people to meet . . . including the teachers and children at the lovely school near here.’
Skye starts to hum but that’s OK. I’m just sneaking the idea of a new school in when I get the chance for now. There’s no rush and it’s important it’s done properly, so Skye doesn’t feel threatened by it.
We don’t see anyone on the way out of the house, but I find myself almost tapping at Dr Marsden’s door to tell him we’re just popping out to look at the garden.
Obviously I’ve no intention of doing so, but I just have this weird sense that he expects to know where we are at any given time. Completely imaginary on my part, I know, but there’s a bit of a strange feel about the people here that I can’t quite put my finger on yet.
‘I love it here already, Mummy,’ she says as we walk down the front steps and around the side of the house. ‘But when I think about our old home, it still makes me feel sad, here.’ She prods her own tummy.
‘I know, poppet. I feel sad, too. It’s always difficult, leaving a home we’ve loved . . .’ I hesitate, not wanting to mention Lewis. ‘But we had no choice, so here we are, and we must count our blessings that our new home is lovely, too.’
Seconds later we’re in the leafy, walled oasis of the Adder House residents’ garden.
It’s still warm out and the lawn and flower beds are bathed in sunlight while the verdant canopies of mature oak trees provide a seductive shade.
Skye races down to the bottom end of the garden where a rope swing hangs from a mighty oak bough.
‘Hang on, Skye, wait for me!’ I pick up my pace. ‘I need to make sure it’s strong enough first.’
For all I know, it could have been hanging there unused for years, the rope rotten and perilous.
‘It’s quite safe.’ A strange voice floats into my ears. ‘The swing, I mean.’
I freeze and look around me but there’s nobody here but us.
Then, a slight movement catches my eye at the edge of a large rhododendron bush. I step a bit closer and peer around it.
A slightly built woman is sitting there on a small wooden bench. She looks a little older than me, maybe in her late thirties. She has a neat dark-blonde bob and wears no jewellery at all apart from a thin gold wedding band. She’s dressed in a long white cotton dress and has bare feet with unpolished toenails.
‘Hello, I didn’t see you behind there,’ I say, a little awkwardly.
She looks so pale and her eyes are like dark, sorrowful smudges under her long fringe, with not so much as a flicker of light discernible.
There’s a sort of frailty about her despite her young age, and I wonder if she’s supposed to be in this garden or if she has just wandered in with the side gate being unlocked.
‘This is my little piece of heaven.’ She smiles weakly. ‘It’s where I come to recalibrate.’
I glance down the garden to check on Skye and see with relief that she’s moved slightly away from the swing now and is happily skipping and singing around the trunk of another large tree next to it.
‘I’m Susan Woodings.’ She doesn’t stand up or offer her hand. ‘I think you met Matthew, my husband, earlier.’
I realise then it’s Professor Woodings’ librarian wife, who has just lost another baby.
Now I understand that the shadows in her eyes bear witness to her repeated heartbreak, and a sudden ache fills my chest.
‘I’m so pleased to meet you.’ I give her a warm smile. ‘I’m Freya and the noisy one over there is Skye, my daughter.’
As soon as I refer to my child, I feel guilt instantly nip at my throat, even though I know it’s illogical. I just hope seeing Skye around the place doesn’t deepen the rawness of her grief.
I walk closer to Susan and see that a little enclave has been fashioned there behind the bush.
There’s the pretty carved bench she’s sitting on and a tiny paved area cluttered with brightly coloured pots planted with lavender and rosemary. Small glittering charms and three wind chimes hanging from various flora and fauna that act as a natural