the smallest amount of air she could, letting it out so that her chest barely moved. Hours—whole days—could be passed that way, rainwater gurgling down the drainpipe outside, Vivien’s eyes closed and her ribcage steady; sometimes, she could almost convince herself she’d managed to stop time.
The room’s greatest virtue, though, was its designation as strictly out of bounds. The rule was laid out for Vivien on her first night in the house—the good room was to be used for entertaining, only by the aunt herself, and then only ever when the status of the guest demanded it—and Vivien had nodded solemnly, when prompted, to show that yes, she understood. And she had, perfectly. Nobody used the room, which meant that once the daily dusting was done, she could count on being alone within its walls.
And so she had been, until today.
Reverend Fawley had been sitting on the armchair by the window for the past fifteen minutes as Aunt Ada fussed over tea and cake. Vivien was stuck beneath the sofa, more specifically pinned by the depression of her aunt’s backside.
‘I don’t need to remind you what the Lord would counsel, Mrs Frost,’ said the Reverend in the cloying voice he saved usually for the little baby Jesus. ‘Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by doing so you may be entertaining angels without realising it.’
‘If that girl’s an angel, then I’m the Queen of England.’
‘Yes, well,’ the pious chink of a spoon against porcelain, ‘the child has suffered a great loss.’
‘More sugar, Reverend?’
‘No—thank you, Mrs Frost.’
The sofa base slumped further as her aunt sighed. ‘We’ve all suffered a great loss, Reverend. When I think of my own dear brother, perishing like that … falling all that way, the lot of them, the Lizzie Ford going right over the edge of the mountain. Harvey Watkins that found them said it was burned so bad he didn’t know what he was looking at. It was a tragedy …’
‘A terrible tragedy.’
‘All the same.’ Aunt Ada’s shoes shifted on the rug, and Vivien could see the toe of one scratching at the bunion trapped within the other. ‘I can’t keep her here. I’ve six of my own, and now Mum’s moving in with us. You know what she’s been like since the doctor had to take her leg. I’m a good Christian woman, Reverend, I’m in church every Sunday, I do my bit for the fete and the Easter fundraiser, but I just can’t do it.’
‘I see.’
‘You know yourself, the girl’s not easy.’
There was a pause in conversation as tea was sipped and the particular nature of Vivien’s lack of easiness considered.
‘If it had been any of the others,’ Aunt Ada set her cup on its saucer, ‘even poor simple Pippin … but I just can’t do it. Forgive me, Reverend, I know that it’s a sin to say so, but I can’t look at the girl without blaming her for all that’s happened. She ought to have gone with them. If she hadn’t got herself in trouble and been punished … They left the picnic early, you know, because my brother didn’t like to leave her so long—he was always too soft-hearted—’. She broke off with a great gasping wail and Vivien thought how ugly adults could be, how weak. So used to getting what they wanted that they didn’t know the first thing about being brave.
‘There, there, Mrs Frost. There, there.’
The sobbing was thick and laboured, like Pippin’s when he wanted Mum’s attention. The Reverend’s chair creaked and then his feet came closer. He handed something to Aunt Ada, he must have, for she said, ‘Thank you,’ through her tears, and then blew her nose wetly.
‘No, you keep it,’ the Reverend said, retreating to his chair. He sat with a heavy sigh. ‘One does wonder, though, what’s to become of the girl’
Aunt Ada made some small sniffly noises of recovery and then ventured, ‘I thought perhaps the church school out Too-woomba way?’ The Reverend crossed his ankles.
‘I believe the nuns take good care of the girls,’ Aunt Ada went on, ‘firm but fair, and the discipline wouldn’t do her any harm—David and Isabel always were too soft.’
‘Isabel,’ said the Reverend suddenly, leaning forward. ‘What about Isabel’s family. Isn’t there anyone who might be contacted?’
‘I’m afraid she never said much about them … Though, now you mention it, there is a brother, I believe.’
‘A brother?’
‘A schoolteacher, over in England. Near Oxford, I think.’
‘Well then.’
‘Well then?’
‘I suggest we start there.’
‘You mean … to contact