Free Still Waters by Katie Flynn Page A

landlady’s daughter Bertha for the other. She thought a deep, rose-pink would be nice for the bridesmaids . . . or possibly a misty blue. When the water was cold she got out, dried herself and put on her nightgown, then made herself cocoa and cut a slice of cake, and got into bed. I’m going to be a married woman, she told herself happily, snuggling down. I’m going to make Peter the happiest man on earth, and that will make me happy.
    But she wished he had said, just once, that he loved her.

Two
    IN THE CARRIER’S cart coming home, they sang all the songs they could think of, at the tops of their voices. War songs, love songs, sentimental songs, funny songs, the Throwers knew them all.
    Though perhaps ‘knew them’ was a slight exaggeration, Tess thought, since Mr Thrower la-la-laed to everything, Mrs Thrower got most of the words in the wrong order and the little ones only knew the choruses; but it didn’t matter, because they were all so happy. The week had simply flown, and when they had locked up the bungalow for the last time and lined up for the carrier’s cart, you might have expected gloom, a few tears, even. But that wasn’t the Thrower way.
    ‘What’ve we had?’ roared Reggie Thrower as they began to sling their small belongings into the cart. It was clearly a family tradition, for the answer came at once from a dozen throats.
    ‘A luverly time!’
    ‘What’ve we sin?’ shouted Reggie, heaving Podge up into the cart.
    ‘We’re sin the sea!’ answered assorted Throwers at the tops of their excellent lungs.
    ‘What did we do?’
    ‘We swam an’ we fished!’ came the answer.
    ‘And how do we feel?’ asked Reggie, stowing his wife aboard in the space left by luggage and offspring.
    ‘We feel rare happy!’
    Tess, sitting in splendour on one of the wooden benches which ran round the sides of the cart, could only add her voice to theirs, for it was true, wonderfully true! They had seen the sea, swum and fished, and though it was over, though it was back to ordinary life now, she still felt extraordinarily, exceedingly happy. What was more, she could swim. Not just the dog-paddle, not even just the breast-stroke, which was the real name, Janet said, for what Ned called ‘froggin’ it’, but a splashy, breathless but recognisable back-stroke as well!
    Maybe it wasn’t the best back-stroke in the world, maybe she didn’t progress as far or as fast as she would have liked, but if flung into the water on her back, she would have been able to save herself without turning on to her front. Indeed, the thought of telling Daddy that she could swim quite made up for the misery of leaving the seaside behind. And besides, as Janet pointed out, they still had several weeks of the summer holidays left, in the course of which they could now do all sorts – they would have to learn to row, for a start, and there was a boy who lived on the other side of the Broad who owned a neat little sailing dinghy – they might prevail upon him to let them have a go: after all, they could both swim now.
    So the journey home was undertaken in excellent spirits and when the cart turned into Deeping Lane and Tess saw the familiar shape of the Old House through the trees, she felt a deep surge of pleasure and contentment. Home! It was a good place to come back to, even though the holiday had been magical, and she had missed Peter. She found she could scarcely prevent herself from leaping off the cart and tearing into the Old House, shouting for him, bursting to tell him everything she had done. Her life had revolved round her father for as long as she could remember, and now that she was back from her wonderful holiday she could not wait to tell him all about it.
    But wait she would have to, because she intended to help the Throwers to unload before running back along the lane to her home. It was only polite, after all they had done for her, and Peter set great store by politeness.
    ‘It costs nothing, but it smooths