Blackthorn Winter (36 page)

It was a formal school photograph, faded now, of a girl looking so much like me that I gasped. I could see now why Celia Glendenning had remarked on my hair when she first met me—because the girl in the photo had the same single blond braid, lying over one shoulder like a thin yellow rope. She was wearing a sort of school uniform with a blue sweater and a white collar; a red, blue, and green plaid jacket; and a necktie, worn crooked. It was nothing like anything I'd ever worn to school, but she had the same gray eyes and the same wide smile and the same exact gap between her front teeth that I had had—until my braces came off last year.

It wasn't like this girl was my twin; you could see differences, too. Her face was rounder, and she had freckles. The shape of our noses was different—hers was smaller, sort of pert, while mine was longer. "An aristocratic Roman nose," Dad used to call mine.

"Amazing, rather!" said Celia Glendenning, pleased with the results of her meddling in our affairs. But I really couldn't blame her.

"
Wow
" was all I could say.

Mom and the Goops pushed back their chairs and came around the table to look over my shoulder.

"Hey, cool!" shouted Edmund. "It's like Juliana's alien clone!"

"Do we know this girl?" asked Ivy, looking puzzled. "She must be your sister or something, Jule."

Mom drew in a quick breath. "Oh, Jule," she whispered. She reached for the photo and examined it closer, looking from it to me, and back again. Then she turned it over. "Oh, my, Juliana—
look.
"

I leaned over and then blinked at what was written
there. I didn't see stars—no, nothing so dramatic—but I felt a kind of wave wash over me, a fresh, clean, invigorating wave, and I felt I'd somehow come to the end of a long journey, or was maybe just setting off on another. On the back of the photograph, written in faded blue ink, were these words, and the date:
Buzzy Ellis, aged sixteen years. 1981.

"So I guess we have to forgive Celia Glendenning for being such a snoop," I told Duncan over dinner at the Coopers' house. "After all, if it hadn't been for her, I'd still have the awful memory of Buzzy in the closet as my only way of picturing her. And now I know I really am part English. My birth mother was from England! Not Australia, not New Zealand."

We had all been invited to dinner—Mom, the Goops, and me. Hazel and Dudley Cooper needed company, Duncan felt, and he'd pushed them to phone Mom and ask us to come. Mom had insisted that she would bring the dessert and salad, and Hazel was only to boil up spaghetti and open a couple bottles of tomato sauce. Nothing fancy.

It wasn't fancy, though of course Mrs. Cooper did much more than boil up spaghetti. She'd made two succulent steak-and-kidney pies with flaky pastry crusts, and a rich chocolate cake. "I'm so glad you're here," Duncan whispered to me when we first arrived. "Granny spent half the day cooking up a storm, and the second half lying on her bed, staring at the cracks on the ceiling."

I'd been lying on my bed much of the day, too. But not staring at cracks. Staring instead at the photo of Barbara-Elizabeth (Buzzy!) Ellis. Staring and wondering and shivering
sometimes with the amazement that I should be holding that photo in my hands.

Hazel and Dudley Cooper had a dazed air about them, and I wondered if the shock of learning that Quent had killed their Nora was really only just beginning to sink in. Everyone seemed glad to have the photograph of Buzzy to talk about instead of the events of yesterday. That got us through dinner. We also discussed how Simon Jukes had been let out of jail and was planning to sue for false imprisonment, police brutality, and deliberate food poisoning. I couldn't help but laugh, though I thought he might have a case with the false imprisonment charge. It seemed to me the police had been very quick to lock him up.

We talked about the new glassblowing class that Mom had signed the Goops up to take with Rodney Whitsun and Andrew Parker. Edmund told everyone how he wanted to learn how to make a ship inside a bottle. Duncan told me that Kate and Veronica Pimms had signed up for the class, too. "Maybe we should take the class as well," he said. "Give them a little healthy competition."

I said absolutely. Even a class with Goops in it would be fun with Duncan there, too. And though I thought I'd been sensing that Kate's feelings for Duncan really were more sisterly than anything else, it wouldn't hurt to stay on the scene. Veronica Pimms I was not worrying about.

After dinner Mom helped Mrs. Cooper wash up the dishes in the kitchen. Mr. Cooper invited the Goops out into the back garden to see the ancient grating into the tunnel. Edmund declared that there should be a plaque installed, with the date of my rescue. I ruffled his hair. When they were all out of the way, Duncan and I sat in
the sitting room together, and I was glad to be alone with him.

We held hands, but we didn't have a whole lot to say, all of a sudden. The silence stretched between us, a good kind of silence. I loved the feeling of our fingers twined together, but my thoughts were not on romance just then. I was wondering so many things, like what would happen when my dad arrived the next day, and what would happen to the Old Mill House now that Quent was dead, and whether we would still be able to live in our cottage now that our landlord was gone—or whether we'd stay in England at all. But these were not concerns to bring up to Duncan. These were things my mom would handle.

After a while I asked Duncan something I thought he
would
know the answer to. "Will you stay here with your grandparents? Or go to live with your father in South America?"

Duncan snorted. "If I didn't go live with him when my mum died, why would I go now that my
evil stepfather
has died?"

I winced. "I just wondered. I'm
glad
you won't be going away."

"The bloody murderer," Duncan muttered under his breath. I squeezed his hand.

He squeezed back. "So, how soon are you going to Norwich?" he asked. "I mean, I'm assuming you'll want to go to Norwich to meet Barbara-Elizabeth's family. You might have
piles
of relatives! More family than you can handle! But they'll be family, and that's the important thing, right?"

"Well," I said, "of course I want to go to Norwich and meet them. Sometime. But—I've already got my family
right here, and Ivy and Edmund are already more relatives than I can handle. Besides," I added, "my dad is coming tomorrow.
That's
the important thing."

 

B
EFORE WE LEFT
the Coopers that evening there was a surprise visit from Oliver Pethering. When the knock sounded on the front door, Dudley Cooper twitched the white lace curtain aside and peered out from the sitting room window.

"Now what is
he
wanting?" groaned Mr. Cooper. "Probably come to say
he's
now the director of the
Jumblies.
His wife maybe left him the position in her will."

"Grandad!" chided Duncan. "Aren't you going to let him in?"

Mrs. Cooper was bustling to the door. "Of course we are," she was saying at the same time her husband was grousing to Mom, "No—just ignore him and maybe he'll go away!"

Oliver came in carrying a painting wrapped in white sheeting. He stepped awkwardly into the sitting room, holding it out in front of him like a shield.

"Oh? And what would this be?" asked Mrs. Cooper.

"A painting. My wife's." Oliver nodded to Mom and then to me and the Goops. "Hello, Hedda. Youngsters. Excuse the interruption." His staccato voice boomed out.

Oliver unveiled the painting of Nora holding baby Duncan. I was watching Mr. Cooper, and for once he was silent. Mrs. Cooper reached out her arms as if to embrace the painting, or to embrace her daughter and the red-haired baby in the picture. Then she took a shaky breath.

"Are you offering this for sale, Oliver?" she asked tremulously. "Oh, we must buy this!"

"You may not," he barked, and immediately Mr. Cooper reared up off the couch, muttering threateningly.

"You may not buy it," repeated Oliver Pethering firmly. "It's a gift. For the boy. For your Duncan."

"A gift!" cried Mrs. Cooper.

"Liza would want him to have it," Oliver said. "I'm sure."

Duncan seemed unable to speak for a long moment. He just stood staring at the painting that Oliver had leaned against the armchair. Then he stepped forward and pumped Oliver's hand. "Thank you so much," he said. "It's really—it's just ... It's great. It's perfect." He stopped, probably kicking himself for stammering all over the place, but I knew how he felt. It was like a gift from his mum, or a message from her—just when he needed one.

Mr. Cooper recovered his manners and asked Oliver to stay for a cup of tea, or even something stronger, but Oliver declined. "Must be going," he said, jovial now. "Doesn't do to keep the ladies waiting!"

Mrs. Cooper shut the door, shaking her head. "
Tsk, tsk.
And his wife not in her grave more than two weeks."

"At least some of Oliver's instincts are right," Mom murmured to me, nodding in the direction of Duncan, who sat on the floor in front of his painting, rapt, studying it inch by inch.

It was time for us to go, too, and we soon said good night and walked back across the village to our cottage. The Old Mill House stood like a silent sentry as we passed it.

 

I
N THE MORNING
we left early for the airport, arriving in good time to meet Dad's plane. Ivy and Edmund were in high spirits, and therefore very annoying, singing all sorts
of raucous camp songs in the car until we got there. My ears rang with bottles of pop on the wall, fires in the shed, and holes in the bottom of the sea. It was a relief to park and walk into the airport.

Dad's plane was on time. Dad came through customs quickly, waving his arms when he saw us, and scooping both Goops up into a huge hug (did I mention that our dad is a large, strong bear of a man?). Then he hugged Mom, and last he turned to me.

He didn't say anything for a moment, just studied my face, and then reached out and crushed me to him. "You amazing kid," he murmured into my hair. "I'm so thankful you're safe."

Tears pricked my eyes as I hugged him back, and I thought how I'd missed him, and how phone messages just hadn't been enough.

On the drive back to Blackthorn, I watched Dad and Mom closely to see how they would be with each other now. I couldn't see that they acted any differently at all. They were friendly and polite, chatting together in the front seat; but they never had been the kind to yell and throw things. I wasn't sure how to gauge their relationship or predict what would happen in their marriage. But I was more sure than ever, though I'd never doubted it, that even if they didn't love each other, they loved their kids. They loved
me.

Ivy chattered nonstop, relating historic details of Britain, starting with the Druids, and then somehow moving on to
mongers
—iron and fish in particular. Edmund pointed to passing cars and made jokes about dogs in the drivers' seats. I was mostly silent.

At last, we were exiting the motorway and heading along the narrow lane lined with the hedgerows—the lane
where we'd first seen Quent Carrington and Duncan racing past. Then we were heading over the hill toward Blackthorn. The now-familiar scent of salt air overlaid with woodsmoke held no added terror today—though my memories were tender, sad, and sore. I would take Dad on a walk tomorrow, on the beach. We would cross the field of beach stones down to the rim of sand, and as we walked along the ocean's edge, I would tell him everything that had been happening. I would tell him everything I'd learned about Barbara-Elizabeth Ellis and everything I remembered about Buzzy—every last detail that had been hidden in my mind all these years.

And then, out of the past, I would take him into the village and introduce him to everybody we'd met since we'd been here. We would stop at the Angel Cafe and the Old Ship. The Goops and I would take him up Castle Hill to see the view. And the ruins.

I made my plans as we drove down Castle Street. And as we passed the thicket of blackthorn bushes, their dark branches spreading like lace, I had a feeling that my blackthorn winter was over. It seemed to me there was a hint of springtime in the air.