nice little boy,’ she repeated, firmly. A little lad who came to her door for dripping toast. An ordinary, dark-haired child, for goodness sake, and shame on Alice Dwerryhouse for thinking otherwise! ‘And would you mind, Julia, if I slipped down to the kitchen for a chat? If I remember rightly, Mrs Shaw always puts the kettle on, just about this time.’
A chat with Cook and Mary and Tilda, just like it used to be, before she climbed into bed and listened to the night sounds she remembered so well; to creaking boards and rattling window frames and outside, in Brattocks, the cries of hunting owls.
‘I’ll come with you. Bet you anything,’ Julia smiled, ‘that Cook has made cherry scones.’ Mrs Shaw always made cherry scones on special days. ‘And I do so wish you were staying, Alice. For ever, I mean. I wish you were in the sewing-room again and you and I sharing secrets like we used to. And Andrew with me, still, and Tom waiting for Reuben to retire so he could leave the bothy and live with you in Keeper’s Cottage.’
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