Coming to a halt, he told Sheba to sit. He took the houses for granted now, passed them every day without a thought, but this one short block of half a dozen homes was all that had survived of Stebondale as he’d known it before the war. The rest had been destroyed, like so much of the Island, like the house he had grown up in.
He’d been too old to be sent to the country, so he’d seen the worst of the bombing in the autumn and winter of 1940. The corners of his mouth turned up as he remembered the relief he’d felt when he’d presented himself at the recruiting office on his seventeenth birthday. The real war, he’d been certain, would be better than just waiting for the bombs to fall.
A few months later those nights in the Anderson’s back garden shelter had seemed an impossibly safe haven. But he had come back, that was the important thing, and his time in Italy had taught him to let the future fend for itself.
Sheba’s yip of impatience ended his reverie. He moved on obligingly and soon she had her anticipated freedom, running full tilt off the lead. George followed after her at his own pace, along the Rope Walk between the Mudchute and Millwall Park, then huffed a bit as they climbed to the Mudchute plateau. There Sheba disappeared from view as she followed the rabbit trails though the thick grass, but he stayed to the narrow path that followed the boundaries of the park. The dog always seemed to know where he was even when she couldn’t see him, and she wouldn’t stray far.
When he reached the gate that led down to the ASDA supermarket, he glanced at his watch. Half past nine—his mates would most likely be gone. The sun had moved higher in the sky and he was sweating freely—the thought of a cuppa, even on his own, was tempting. But the longer he tarried, the hotter it would be going home.
Mopping his head with his handkerchief, he walked on. Here the brambles encroached on the path, catching at his trouser legs, and he stopped for a moment to unhook a particularly tenacious thorn from his trainer laces. As he knelt he heard Sheba whimper.
He frowned as he finished retying his shoelace. It seemed an odd sound for Sheba to make here, where her normal repertoire consisted of excited barks and yips—could she be hurt? Unease gripped him as he stood quickly and looked ahead. The sound had come from further down the path, he was sure of that.
“Sheba!” he called, and he heard the quaver of alarm in his voice.
This time the whimper was more clear, ahead and to the right. George hurried on, his heart pounding, and rounded a gentle curve.
The woman lay on her back in the tall grass to the right of the path. Her eyes were closed, and the spread of her long red-gold hair mingled with the white-flowering bindweed. Sheba, crouching beside her, looked up at George expectantly.
She was beautiful. For an instant he thought she was sleeping, even hesitantly said, “Miss …”
Then a fly lit on the still white hand resting on the breast of her jacket, and he knew.
CHAPTER 2Down by the Docks is a region I would choose as my point of embarkation if I were an emigrant. It would present my intention to me in such a sensible light; it would show me so many things to turn away from.
Charles Dickens (1861)
At five minutes to ten on an already hot Saturday morning, Gemma found herself looking for an address in Lonsdale Square. A few minutes’ walk from her Islington flat, the square was lined solidly with the cars of residents at home for the weekend. A posh neighborhood, this, the preserve of upwardly mobile Blairites, and Gemma wondered how the woman could afford such an exclusive address. The terraced Georgian houses looked severe, their gray-brick facades relieved only by trim in black or white … except for the one with the glossy red door.
Gemma checked its number against the address on her notepad, then climbed the steps and rang the bell. She tucked a stray wisp of hair back into its plait and glanced down at her casual Saturday clothes—jeans and sandals and a linen shirt the color of limes. What did one wear for the occasion? Maybe she should have—
Before she could talk herself into retreating, the door swung open. “You must be Gemma,” the woman in the cherry-red jumper said, and smiled. She wore little makeup other than the red lipstick outlining her full lips, her short dark hair was fashionably ragged, as if it had been trimmed with nail scissors, and against her pale skin her eyes were a clear and luminous hazel. “I’m Wendy.”
“I like your door,” said Gemma.
“I find it breaks the ice. Come in.” The room into which she led Gemma faced the street. It stretched towards the back of the house, long and narrow with simple lines and a high ceiling. A formal Georgian mantel on the outside wall divided the room into two perfectly proportioned halves.
Beyond that all Gemma’s expectations failed. The walls were crayon yellow, the furniture sixties contemporary in primary colors, and above the mantel hung a huge poster of the Beatles crossing Abbey Road.
An upright piano stood against the long wall, between the fireplace and the rear of the room. As Gemma looked round, the woman touched her arm and gestured towards the sofa.
“Sit down. I’ve made us some coffee. This morning we’re just going to get acquainted.”
“But I thought …” Gemma’s nervousness flooded back. Whatever had possessed her to make this appointment, to give up a free Saturday morning that could have been spent with Toby? It had been a stupid idea, a chance thought followed up when it should have been dismissed, and now she was about to make an utter ass of herself. Thank goodness she’d told no one but her friend Hazel what she meant to do.
Wendy Sheinart sat down beside Gemma and lifted the coffeepot. “Now.” Smiling, she filled Gemma’s cup. “You can tell me why you want to play the piano.”
KINCAID HAD PACKED THE SORT OF picnic he thought a boy would approve of—thick ham sandwiches, potato crisps, Cokes, and the pièce de résistance, an enormous slab of chocolate gâteau from the bakery on Heath Street. He stowed the hamper, specially bought for the occasion, in the Midget’s boot, then put down the car’s top with a grateful glance at the clear blue arch of sky visible over Carlingford Road.
After the heavy rains of the first few weeks in June, the prospects for Wimbledon Finals had looked dismal. But Kincaid had persevered in his quest for tickets, finally securing two center-court seats for the day, and it seemed that the weather gods had seen fit to reward his diligence.
Offering up a silent thanks, he hopped into the car with an unaccustomed sense of anticipation. The Midget’s engine roared obediently to life, and as he eased it into gear he felt a spasm of guilt for having even considered getting rid of the old car. Abandonment seemed a poor compensation for its years of faithful service—a bit like putting down a good dog—not to mention the fact that Kit would probably never forgive him. The boy had fallen in love with the car at first sight, and the last thing he needed now was another loss, however small.
Since his ex-wife’s murder in April, Kincaid had done what he could to fill the gap in her son’s life. He had also come to feel sure that Kit was, in fact, not Vic’s second husband’s son but his own child, conceived just before he and Vic had separated twelve years ago—though he had yet to tell Kit what he suspected was their true relationship.
Turning into Rosslyn Hill, Kincaid headed south, into Haverstock Hill, then into Chalk Farm and Camden High Street. When he’d passed through Camden Town on his way home from Gemma’s earlier that morning, the street vendors had been setting up their booths. Now the Saturday market was in full swing and the display of colorful cotton skirts and dresses made him think of Gemma. The clothes would suit her, and she’d enjoy the bustle of it all. Perhaps one day soon they could bring Kit for a Saturday outing.