The Visitor by Katherine Stansfield Page A

little knife there?’
    If you shut a hogshead tight it would make it to Rome without a single fish chipped or bruised. If you sealed the past the same way, nailed down the lid and set a brand, you could save yourself from bruises.
    George cleared his throat. ‘I spoke to Eileen in the shop and she said you’d mentioned someone. Mother, watch the pan!’
    There was steam everywhere and searing heat on her hand. The potatoes were lost in an angry mess of water.
    George swung her away from the stove. ‘Did you catch yourself?’
    â€˜Only a splash,’ she said, trying not show how much it hurt.
    â€˜Here, get it in the pail. I’ll go and get some more water to soak it.’ George was cursing Pascoe’s failure to get running water as he went out the back door.
    By the time George came back Jack had returned from his walk. Pearl did her best to save the potatoes. George’s unasked question circled through the steam.

Nine
    She knows she can’t ask questions about Alice. Her mother yanks the comb through her hair and then forces it into plaits. Because it’s Sunday her hair has to try and behave, just as she has to try and not get dirty. That’s easier today than on other days. There’s no chance to play with Nicholas and Jack on a Sunday. Indoor days keep muck away. Though the back room of chapel smells of wet coats, it’s scrubbed so often by Nicholas’ mother Annie that there’s no dirt hiding, waiting to grime Pearl before she realises.
    She’s thinking about Alice though. Pearl can feel a question inside her mouth. It has spindly legs and is trying to slip between her lips and get into the room. There would be trouble then. To stop it she hums a tune to herself and concentrates on tying her laces. Polly whirls into the bedroom where Pearl and her mother are. She grabs her good dress from the back of the chair where her mother has laid it ready. Her father shouts from downstairs. They’re late for the morning service.
    Out onto the street and Pearl has to run to keep up. It’s a dry, roasting sort of day with no wind. Soon she’s short of breath and rasping. Her eyes water and there’s a hot sickness at the back of her throat.
    â€˜You go on,’ her mother tells her father and Polly. ‘We’ll catch up.’
    Her mother rubs her chest hard, which helps but hurts at the same time. They’re by the steps to the net loft Miss Charles uses. Pearl doesn’t want to go near them but she hasn’t got her breath back to say. Her mother sits her on the bottom step and Pearl leans her head against the rail.
    Her mother tuts. ‘Just look at your boots,’ she says. ‘You’ve not been out of the house five minutes.’ The laces have untied themselves and trailed in something muddy. While her mother tuts some more and fusses with them, Pearl looks up at the landing. The door to the net loft is half hanging off the frame, the wood next to the lock splintered. Where has Mr Michaels gone, and Miss Charles?
    â€˜Better now?’ her mother says. Pearl’s not sure if she means the laces or her chest but she nods anyway. She doesn’t want to stay here any longer. Her mother takes her hand and together they walk down the street towards chapel. At the end they turn right, away from the sea, and go up a steep hill. The chapel looks down over the village, its windows eager eyes to watch them all. Pearl’s mother carries her, to rest her chest, though she’s too big for that really. Pearl feels like a giant, her head and shoulders far above her mother’s. Her mother puts her down at the doorway and Pearl has a clear view of the sea. But there’s something wrong. The sea is dotted with boats. That can’t be right. It’s Sunday, isn’t it? She’s standing outside chapel. Unless this is a dream and she’s actually still in bed, still to have her hair combed. But then she realises