head when he was still a boy, telling him stories about the fine weather in the west, the glorious gardens, the salt and the sea and the rich folklore. âThe time just never came,â heâd told Sadie sadly some weeks after the funeral. âYou always presume thereâs time ahead, until one day you realise there isnât.â When Sadie had asked him whether heâd miss London, heâd shrugged and said that of course he would, it was his home, the place heâd been born and grown up, where heâd met his wife and raised his family. âBut itâs the past, Sadie, love; Iâll carry that with me wherever I go. Doing something new, though, something that Ruth and I talked aboutâin some way it feels like Iâm giving her a future, too.â
Sadie was aware, suddenly, of footfalls on the landing, a knock at the door. Quickly, she hid the envelope behind her pillow. âCome in.â
The door opened and Bertie was there, cake tin in hand.
She smiled too broadly, her heart racing as if she were guilty of an indiscretion. âFound what you were looking for?â
âThe very thing. Iâm going to bake tomorrow, one of my signature pear cakes.â He frowned lightly. âThough it occurs to me I havenât any pears.â
âIâm no expert, but Iâm guessing that could be a problem.â
âI donât suppose youâd pick some up for me in the village tomorrow morning?â
âWell, Iâll have to check my diary . . .â
Bertie laughed. âThanks, Sadie, love.â
He lingered in such a way that Sadie knew he had more to say. Sure enough: âI found something else while I was up there.â He reached inside the tin and took out a dog-eared book, holding it up so she could see the cover. âGood as new, eh?â
Sadie recognised it at once. It was like opening the door unexpectedly to an old friend, the sort whoâd been along for the ride during an especially difficult and bruising period. She couldnât believe Bertie and Ruth had kept it. Hard to imagine now, the prominence the book of brainteasers had had in her life back then, when sheâd first come to live with them. Sheâd cloistered herself away in the spare bedroom at her grandparentsâ house, the little room above the shop that Ruth had done up specially for her, and sheâd worked through the whole thing, page by page, front to back, her commitment verging on the religious.
âGot them all out, didnât you?â Bertie said. âEvery puzzle.â
Sadie was touched by the pride in his voice. âI did.â
âDidnât even need to look at the answers.â
âCertainly not.â She eyed the rough edges at the back where sheâd torn out the solutions so she wouldnât, couldnât, be tempted. It had been very important to her, that. Her answers must be her own, her achievements clean and absolute, above suspicion. Sheâd been trying to prove something, of course. That she wasnât stupid or hopeless or âa bad eggâ, no matter what her parents might think. That problems, no matter how big, could be solved; that a great wave could crash and the fishermen survive. âRuth bought it for me.â
âThat she did.â
It had been the perfect gift at the perfect time, though Sadie suspected sheâd been less than grateful. She couldnât remember what sheâd said when her grandmother gave it to her. Probably nothing; she hadnât been particularly communicative back then. A sixteen-year-old knot of insolence and monosyllabic disdain for everyone and everything, including (especially) these unknown relatives whoâd swept in to rescue her. âI wonder how she knew?â
âShe was good like that, kind and clever. She saw people, even when they did their best to hide.â Bertie smiled and they both pretended talk of Ruth hadnât made his