of the man. But she had, each night the same. The man at the side of the house, calling her mother’s name— ‘Looks good,’ said Rose, sliding out the oven rack. ‘Not as good as hers perhaps, but we mustn’t expect miracles.’
Laurel had found her mother in the kitchen, on this very spot, a few days before she left for London. She’d asked her straight. ‘How did that man know your name, Ma?’ Her stomach had churned as the words left her lips, her head had lightened, and a part of her, she realised as she waited, prayed that her mother would say she was mistaken. That she’d misheard and the man had said no such thing.
Dorothy hadn’t answered right away. She’d gone to the fridge instead, opened the door and started riffling about inside. Laurel had watched her back for what seemed like forever, and she’d almost given up hope when her mother finally began to speak. ‘The newspaper,’ she said. ‘The police say he must’ve read the article in the paper. There was a copy in his briefcase. That’s how he knew where to come.’
It had made perfect sense.
That is, Laurel had wanted it to make sense and therefore it had. The man had read the newspaper, seen her mother’s picture and then set out to find her. And if a small voice in the back of Laurel’s mind whispered, why?, she waved that nagging drone aside. He was a madman, who could say why for certain? And what did it matter anyway? It was over. So long as Laurel didn’t pick too closely at its delicate threads, the tapestry hung together. The picture remained intact.
At least it had done until now. Incredible, really, that after fifty years all it took was the return of an old photograph and the utterance of a woman’s name for the fabric of Laurel’s fiction to begin unravelling.
The oven rack slid back with a clang and, ‘Five more minutes,’ said Rose.
Laurel glugged wine into her glass and strove for nonchalance: ‘Rosie?’
‘Mm?’
‘That photograph today, the one at the hospital. The woman who gave the book to Ma—’
‘Vivien.’
‘Yes.’ Laurel shuddered lightly as she set down the bottle. The name did something strange to her. ‘Did Ma ever mention her to you?’
‘A little,’ said Rose, ‘After I found the photo. They were friends.’ Laurel remembered the date on the photograph, 1941. ‘During the war.’
Rose nodded, folding the tea towel into a neat rectangle. ‘She didn’t say much, though she did say Vivien was Australian.’
‘Australian?’
‘She came here as a child, I’m not sure why exactly.’
‘How did they meet?’
‘She didn’t say.’
‘Why haven’t we met her?’
‘No idea.’
‘Funny, isn’t it, that she was never mentioned?’ Laurel took a sip of wine. ‘I wonder why not.’
The oven timer rang. ‘Perhaps they had a bust up. Drifted apart. I don’t know.’ Rose drew on the mitts. ‘Why are you so interested anyway?’
‘I’m not. Not really.’
‘Let’s eat then,’ said Rose, cupping the cobbler dish. ‘This looks quite perf—’
‘She died,’ said Laurel with sudden conviction. ‘Vivien died.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I mean—’ Laurel swallowed and backtracked swiftly—‘perhaps she died. There was a war on. It’s possible, don’t you think?’
‘Anything’s possible.’ Rose probed the crust with a fork. ‘Take, for example, this really rather respectable glaze. Ready to brave the others?’ ‘Actually—’ the need to get upstairs, to check her flash of memory, was immediate and searing—‘you were right before. I am feeling poorly.’
‘You don’t want pudding?’
Laurel shook her head, halfway to the door. ‘Early night for me, I’m afraid. Terrible to be ill tomorrow.’
‘Can I get you something else—paracetamol, a cup of tea?’
‘No,’ said Laurel, ‘no thanks. Except, Rose—’
‘Yes?’
‘The play.’
‘Which play?’
‘Peter Pan—the book the photo came from. Is it handy?’
‘You are a funny thing,’ said Rose with a lopsided smile. ‘I’ll have to dig it out for you.’ She bobbed her head at the cobbler. ‘Later all right?’ ‘Of course, no hurry, I’ll just be resting. Enjoy your pudding. And Rosie?’
‘Yes?’
‘Sorry to send you back into the fray alone.’
It was the mention of Australia that had done it. As Rose re-counted what she’d learned from their mother, a light bulb had fired in Laurel’s mind and she’d known why Vivien was important. She remembered, too, where she’d first come across the name, all those years before.
While her sisters ate dessert and hunted for a knife they’d never find, Laurel braved the attic in search of her trunk. There was one for each of them; Dorothy had been strict in that regard. It was because