her. She left as soon as she could, not meeting his eyes, and vowing that, should she make it home, she would never, never return.
But she had returned—of course she had—on four separate occasions, each time lying to Mrs Probart about further hospital tests, the hint of a minor surgery that might be required, and Mrs Probart, in her kindness, her concern, had popped over every few days to see how she was faring, patting her hand, bringing vegetables from her own garden because the vegetables grew in Mrs Probart’s garden where none grew at The Larches andDiana, dismayed by her neighbour’s generosity, tried in vain to refuse them.
And Abigail grew sleek and plump and her cheeks were rosy and her appetite grew and she became used to the sweet and sugary things that now routinely came her way. And she whined and sulked and threw her bowl and took off her shoes and threw them at her mother when the sweet and sugary things ran out and the cupboard became bare again. And so Diana returned, making the journey into London and persuading herself it was just a social call, that she was visiting an old friend of the family. And Lance played along. They talked and drank tea and the transaction at the conclusion of the call was handled swiftly and discreetly. His office remained at Liverpool Street and she told herself this was a good sign, for it suggested the danger was minimal, but his words to her that first time haunted her: If you get caught with this lot on you, you’re on your own .
Her dreams were filled with policemen. When she saw one for real in the course of her day—the local bobby on his bicycle, the constable standing on the village green taking down notes following some motoring accident or talking to the landlord of the pub about some licensing issue—the blood drained from her face and she turned and walked in the other direction, even on the days she walked with Abigail to watch the ducks carrying nothing more incriminating than an umbrella and a raincoat.
Christmas had come and gone and so too the worst of January before Diana had returned for one final visit, and this time she had brought Abigail with her. She had done this because she could no longer bring herself to lie to Mrs Probart, and because she now understood that payment for the goodswas purely monetary, that nothing else was expected of her. Besides, somehow it did not seem quite so furtive, so underhand, going in to London, going to visit Lance, when she had her child with her.
‘Where are we going?’ Abigail had demanded that morning, unconvinced by a journey that did not involve the park or food or toys.
‘We’re going to pay a visit to your Uncle Lance. He can’t wait to meet you. If you’re very, very good, he might give you something.’
‘What? What will he give me?’ Abigail wanted to know, accepting the fact of a hitherto-unknown Uncle Lance without a second thought.
It was Diana’s fifth trip. This will be the last, she told herself.
The day was bitterly cold. A raid in London the previous night, the first in months, had disrupted the trains and consequently they had arrived at Lance’s office much later than usual and she had said nothing to him about bringing her child. She had hesitated outside the old warehouse, suddenly uncertain, with Abigail pulling impatiently on her hand and grizzling with exhaustion after the long, long journey. But Lance had been charming, had taken to Abigail at once, the way some men do with small children, finding things for her to play with, dandling her on his knee and teasing her, laughing indulgently when she showed off and not minding too much when she got overly tired and became petulant and bad-tempered. But when Diana had taken Abigail to the lavatory in preparation for the long homeward journey, waiting outside the tiny cubicle to check she was managing alright, Lance had come in and taken her arm and pulled her outside.
‘That was a mistake, Diana, bringing your little girl.
But she had returned—of course she had—on four separate occasions, each time lying to Mrs Probart about further hospital tests, the hint of a minor surgery that might be required, and Mrs Probart, in her kindness, her concern, had popped over every few days to see how she was faring, patting her hand, bringing vegetables from her own garden because the vegetables grew in Mrs Probart’s garden where none grew at The Larches andDiana, dismayed by her neighbour’s generosity, tried in vain to refuse them.
And Abigail grew sleek and plump and her cheeks were rosy and her appetite grew and she became used to the sweet and sugary things that now routinely came her way. And she whined and sulked and threw her bowl and took off her shoes and threw them at her mother when the sweet and sugary things ran out and the cupboard became bare again. And so Diana returned, making the journey into London and persuading herself it was just a social call, that she was visiting an old friend of the family. And Lance played along. They talked and drank tea and the transaction at the conclusion of the call was handled swiftly and discreetly. His office remained at Liverpool Street and she told herself this was a good sign, for it suggested the danger was minimal, but his words to her that first time haunted her: If you get caught with this lot on you, you’re on your own .
Her dreams were filled with policemen. When she saw one for real in the course of her day—the local bobby on his bicycle, the constable standing on the village green taking down notes following some motoring accident or talking to the landlord of the pub about some licensing issue—the blood drained from her face and she turned and walked in the other direction, even on the days she walked with Abigail to watch the ducks carrying nothing more incriminating than an umbrella and a raincoat.
Christmas had come and gone and so too the worst of January before Diana had returned for one final visit, and this time she had brought Abigail with her. She had done this because she could no longer bring herself to lie to Mrs Probart, and because she now understood that payment for the goodswas purely monetary, that nothing else was expected of her. Besides, somehow it did not seem quite so furtive, so underhand, going in to London, going to visit Lance, when she had her child with her.
‘Where are we going?’ Abigail had demanded that morning, unconvinced by a journey that did not involve the park or food or toys.
‘We’re going to pay a visit to your Uncle Lance. He can’t wait to meet you. If you’re very, very good, he might give you something.’
‘What? What will he give me?’ Abigail wanted to know, accepting the fact of a hitherto-unknown Uncle Lance without a second thought.
It was Diana’s fifth trip. This will be the last, she told herself.
The day was bitterly cold. A raid in London the previous night, the first in months, had disrupted the trains and consequently they had arrived at Lance’s office much later than usual and she had said nothing to him about bringing her child. She had hesitated outside the old warehouse, suddenly uncertain, with Abigail pulling impatiently on her hand and grizzling with exhaustion after the long, long journey. But Lance had been charming, had taken to Abigail at once, the way some men do with small children, finding things for her to play with, dandling her on his knee and teasing her, laughing indulgently when she showed off and not minding too much when she got overly tired and became petulant and bad-tempered. But when Diana had taken Abigail to the lavatory in preparation for the long homeward journey, waiting outside the tiny cubicle to check she was managing alright, Lance had come in and taken her arm and pulled her outside.
‘That was a mistake, Diana, bringing your little girl.
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