What Have I Done

Five years ago



The lawyer’s office was fusty, crowded with fat, dusty textbooks and what looked to Kate like ancient fishing gear. The wooden handles and woven holdall had both withered with age and looked entirely unable to cope with the thrash and slap of even the smallest fish. The window sill had become a magnolia-painted graveyard for spiders lying shrivelled on their backs like discarded currants. Particles of dust and minute fibres danced in the shafts of sunlight that crisscrossed the room.

Kate felt the specks of skin and other airborne matter tickle the back of her throat. She tried to keep her mouth closed, but resisted asking for the window to be opened. It was probably best not to invite in the dirt and fumes of central London and besides, she was enjoying the quiet of Mr Barnes’ room.

Kate had been out for three days and six hours. A free woman, having served almost five years of her eight year sentence and ready to face the world. Her biggest joy thus far had been the peaceful state of silence in which she had found herself on three occasions: in the taxi that had collected her from prison, in bed at the Kensington hotel in which she was staying and now in this grubby office in Knightsbridge, facing the man that Mark had trusted with his most precious thing. His money.

The lawyer was old-school: red-faced, bloated and tweed-clad – and probably an Old Mountbrieren. The sort of man whose approval and friendship Mark would have courted. She could clearly picture this Mr Barnes retelling her story, trading it across the dining table between sips of claret and mouthfuls of game. She would be portrayed as that ‘frightful woman’ who had ‘done in’ the headmaster – an award-winning headmaster, no less.

Did she care? Only in so far as such gossip might reach Lydia and Dominic up in Yorkshire, which bothered her enormously.

Mr Barnes pushed his heavy, gold-framed spectacles up onto his bulbous nose and surveyed the papers in his hand. He was reading intently, as if the information contained within them was new to him. Maybe it was. It also provided him with the perfect opportunity to establish his superiority; he cared little that she might have other appointments to attend, or that her new-found freedom was being squandered in this dreary, airless room. He was happy to invite her to his offices and then let her sit in silence, waiting to learn of her financial fate, while he pondered the document. That he considered her so insignificant amused her. Unbeknown to him, she was quite content, not restless, keen or fidgety like others who’d sat in the same chair. She had all the time in the world.

Finally, Mr Barnes placed the papers face down on the leather-topped bureau and removed his glasses.

‘I trust you are…’

Kate waited for him to finish the sentence; he didn’t.

‘Yes, yes I am.’

‘Quite.’

He gave a flash of his ancient yellowed teeth. They reminded Kate of tusks, quite fitting for this walrus of a man. She smiled patiently at the meaningless exchange.

‘Right, well, Kathryn—’

‘It’s Kate.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’m not Kathryn Brooker any more. I never was, really; that was what Mark called me. I was Kate or Katie as a girl and Kathryn was a label Mark gave me. He took every part of me, even my name. So now I am back to Kate and my maiden name of Gavier. I won’t ever be Kathryn Brooker again.’

Mr Barnes stared at the neat woman seated in front of him. He stretched his neck by protruding his lower jaw – an ugly mannerism. She was clearly completely bonkers and no doubt one of those bloody women’s libbers. In his day, a woman took her husband’s name and was jolly glad to have it.

‘Whichever. It’s of little consequence—’

‘To you maybe.’ She wasn’t going to let this go. ‘But to me it’s of huge consequence, so it’s Kate from now on.’

‘Yes, I got that. Shall we move on?’

‘Please do.’ She nodded.

Mr Barnes restored his reading glasses and turned over the papers. Kate smiled at the theatricality.

‘Kate.’ He paused after more or less shouting her name, point made. ‘Mark has left you very well provided for. He not only had a sizeable pension that has performed rather splendidly, but was also prudent enough to have taken out life insurance, as well as a couple of other investments that we have redeemed on your behalf. Yours is a most unique situation and not one that I have been faced with before. There has been much discussion between myself and the insurance company in question and I confess to seeking counsel from more than one of my colleagues, but it would appear that all is in order in accordance with the law.’

She nodded. His tone was more than slightly accusatory and if she had to be honest, it did feel slightly odd to be the beneficiary of a life-insurance policy when it was she that had ended that life.

‘Had you committed murder then things would be rather different, but as it stands, I am obliged to inform you that the figure is as follows…’

The way he accentuated the word ‘obliged’ told her all she needed to know.

He slid the top sheet across the desk, his fingers sticking slightly, causing the paper to lift. His podgy digits were coated with the residue of a roast chicken lunch followed by a quick pee, after neither of which had he troubled to wash his hands.

Kate’s eyes were instantly drawn to the bottom right-hand corner, where the numbers had been totted up. The total was just short of a million pounds. Kate felt her stomach clench in surprise. She had no idea, how had Mark managed to accrue such a sum? She felt her mouth go dry as her mind whirled with the possibilities of what this might mean for Dominic and Lydia…

‘Is this in line with what you were expecting, Kate?’ Again he almost spat her name.

She nodded and half shrugged, unsure of how else to respond. She had given little consideration to money matters while she had been in jail and never in her wildest imaginings could have guessed at such a considerable sum. Whatever the amount, a million or a billion, nothing could adequately compensate for the life that she had led with Mark and for her estrangement from her beloved children. She would have traded every single penny of it to have seen them at the prison gates upon her release.

Kate stood, indicating that the meeting was over.

‘Do you have a plan for the money?’ Mr Barnes’ tone was sharp.

She found his comment impertinent and unnecessary. It was nothing to do with him, not any more. She really wanted to say, ‘Yes – the whole lot on the two forty at Kempton methinks.’ But she didn’t.

‘Well, first on my agenda is a holiday with my kids, just the three of us whiling away the days in the sun. I can’t wait. Thank you for asking, Mr Burns.’

‘It’s Barnes.’

‘Whichever, it’s of little consequence.’ This she delivered over her shoulder as she left, relieved to escape the fusty atmosphere at last.

* * *

Kate lay on the bed in her hotel room staring at the ceiling. London traffic revved and hooted below. Her legs were crossed and rested vertically up the wall. She wiggled her toes inside her new, soft grey socks – one of many small luxuries that thrilled her. A cup of strong Earl Grey and two almond tuille crisps sat on a little tray beside her on the mattress. She wound the curly flex of the telephone handset around her fingers: it was fantastic to be able to just pick up a phone and make a call, exhilarating to have a window she could open, a door to walk through for a lungful of outside air.

‘Hello, Yorkshire, we are all set!’

Kate’s excitement bubbled from her as her sister answered the phone.

‘Oh God, Fran, I can’t believe it, I really can’t. It’s going to be so perfect, although to be honest I’d be happy to see them anywhere – Blackpool, Weston-super-Mare, you name it. It will of course be all the more perfect because we will be in the sunshine, but all that really matters is being able to talk, without distraction. I can’t believe I’m going to see them! I can’t believe it! Do you know what the best thing will be? Going to sleep under the same roof as Dom and Lydi and seeing them all sleepy and mussy-haired in the morning. Do you know how many years it is since I’ve done that! I feel like it’s Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve and every single birthday all rolled into one—’

‘Kate—’

‘Can you tell them that I have all the factors and aftersun we need; might have gone a bit overboard. Lydi always goes brown as a berry, lucky thing, but Dom tends to do the whole several shades of lobster thing before tanning. I’ve got enough lotions and potions to last a lifetime.’

‘Kate—’ Francesca’s voice was a little more insistent this time.

‘I know, I know. I’m rambling, Fran, I can’t help it! I am so excited! Did I give you flight times? I did, didn’t I? I want to see them before we fly, obviously. I think I’ll get a hotel room at Gatwick and they can either come down the night before or really, really early so we have a few hours to kind of get to know each other again before we take off—’

‘They. Are. Not. Coming.’

Francesca delivered each syllable as though she were talking to a foreigner: louder than normal and over-enunciated.

‘Oh, well, that’s okay. It was just a thought. I can meet them at the airport and actually, thinking about it, that might work better. It might be easier for them with lots of people around, lots of distractions. In fact it will give us all a chance to just “be” together and by the time we arrive, talking will be easier. I don’t mind, whichever is best.’

‘No. Listen to me, Kate. They are not coming at all, not to the airport and not on holiday. They are not coming at all. I’m sorry, lovey.’

Kate allowed her legs to slide down the wall. Her babbling ceased and she curled into a small ball on top of the duvet, wrapped around the telephone handset.

‘Is it the journey?’ she whispered. ‘I could easily come and pick them up. Or I could send money for the train fare, anything.’

‘It’s no good, Katie, they need more time.’

‘More time? How much more time? They’ve had five years!’ Kate squealed through a mouth contorted with sobs.

‘I know, honey, I know…’

‘You don’t know, Francesca! You really do not know! I’m sorry, I know it’s not your fault, but please, please, please bring them to me, please. Fran, please…’

‘Honey, I have tried. I promise you, I have tried. I have sat with them both and discussed the options. Bear with them, Katie, they just need longer. Having you out is yet another adjustment and we have to tread carefully.’

In prison Kate had been able to fool herself with many reasons for their absence: the distance from York, their hectic schedules, the fear of seeing her in a prison setting. Now, however, she had to face the reality. Not visiting her had been their choice. Worse still, even now, when they could simply jump on a train and be with her in a matter of hours, they still didn’t want to see her. She could no longer conceal the unpalatable truth from herself.

‘Please, Francesca, please!’

‘It’s not my decision, Katie. I know this is tough.’

Too tough, it’s too tough. How do I get through this?

‘Let’s see how they feel when you get back. Don’t cry, sis, it will all be okay. Please don’t cry.’

My heart breaks every time. Every time.

* * *

The idea of a holiday hadn’t occurred to Kate until she’d blurted it out to the nosy lawyer. But it made perfect sense: a chance for her and the kids to get reacquainted in a neutral setting, a chance to have them all to herself, to try and catch up after their time apart. She hadn’t considered that they simply would not want to be with her.

This knowledge caused the tiny fracture in her heart to widen a little more.

Kate spent a long night torturing herself, imagining her and the kids walking barefoot on sand, talking openly as the sun sank on the horizon. It was not to be. In the morning she surveyed the floor, now strewn with tear-soaked tissues, and she decided to go away anyway.

For the first time in her life there was nowhere that she needed to be, no house, job or family eager for her return. She might as well stay in a hotel abroad as a hotel in London, where she could gather her thoughts in peace and sit in the sunshine. St Lucia – even the name was exotic on her lips.

At Gatwick, she found herself filled with dread; it was as if everyone but her in the departure lounge knew the drill. The eighteen years she had spent isolated under Mark’s control, then the time in prison, meant she was out of practice at being in a strange crowd. It was ridiculous really, that having lived with murderers and drug dealers for the last five years, she was now quite petrified of the backpack-wielding family whose haul of colouring books and wet wipes were spread on the bank of seats opposite her. Supposing they spoke to her? God only knew what she would have in common with the rather leggy mummy who sipped from her Styrofoam cup and occasionally stroked the muscular thigh of her husband.

Kate scrutinised the woman’s face, watched her mouth, analysed her actions. She knew that you could never really trust first impressions. Was the woman scared? Restrained? Coerced? Kate had to admit she didn’t look scared, restrained or coerced. In fact she looked relaxed, comfortable and happy. Lucky girl.

Kate was saddened by her mistrust of people. Her confidence in being able to exchange small talk had vanished; perhaps with practice it would return. She allowed herself to imagine for a second what it might be like to choose a good man and live a lovely life. How had she got it so wrong?

She immersed herself in her book of Derek Walcott’s poetry and tried to remain invisible. She was absorbed by one line that seemed impossibly apt, repeating it and revelling in the possibilities that it presented:

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

She liked the idea of that very much.

The hubbub of a throng of boys jolted her from her musing. They ambled along in groups of four and five; a pack. Smart and polished, yet with the nonchalance and labels of boys she had once been familiar with, boys like Dominic. They were dressed alike, in tracksuit bottoms and hooded tops, with layered, long fringes and leather satchel bags slung over shoulders. She guessed they were aged between twelve and fourteen. They were polite but awkward in their as yet unblemished skin.

Much to her discomfort, the boys targeted the three empty seats next to her. They dumped their holdalls and clustered round, seemingly oblivious to the lady with her nose in a book. They exchanged banter about the rugby tour they were about to embark on, gate opening times and the fact that ‘George’ had been late, nearly missing the school bus. For this George was chastised and tagged with several politically incorrect names, although what his sexuality and a faulty alarm clock had in common was beyond her. Their tone was plummy and that they were comfortable in a large airport heading off without parents to the other side of the world spoke volumes.

It was almost simultaneous. As Kate lowered her book, one of the boys turned to face away from her, bringing the school crest on his back sharply into focus. Her breath caught in her throat, her skin was instantly covered in a thin film of cold sweat and her legs shook. It still had the power to do that to her, the gold emblem with eagle wings spreading behind, the Latin motto beneath: Veritas Liberabit Vos. Truth Shall Set You Free. It meant Mark, it meant torture, it meant prison. It meant that Lydia and Dominic were gone.

Kate reached for her bag and attempted to shove her book and bottle of water inside it. Her heart thudded loudly in her ribcage, her vision blurred. In her haste she dropped the book. A pair of young hands swooped to the floor and retrieved it.

The dark-haired teenager handed her the paperback.

‘Excuse me, I think this is yours.’

‘Th… thank you, yes it is.’

‘He was a Nobel Prize winner, wasn’t he? Any good?’

Kate looked up and into the eyes of Guido Petronatti. He had been nine the last time she had seen him. It didn’t surprise her that he recognised a Nobel Prize winner when he saw one, smart boy.

She took a deep breath and decided she had nothing to lose.

‘I’ve only just started it, Guido, but it’s certainly showing promise. He writes some beautiful poetry. Do you still read a lot?’

Kate recalled the bespectacled young bookworm who had liked nothing more than to disappear into a quiet corner of the library with the latest Harry Potter. That was a lifetime ago.

The boy’s eyebrows shot up in a confused upward slant.

‘Yes, I do. Do I…? How did you…? Oh shit! Sorry, Mrs Brooker, I didn’t mean shit, I mean…’

‘It’s okay, Guido. I understand.’

‘Wow. I wasn’t expecting to see you again, ever. Are you, like…? Did you…? Shit. Sorry.’

‘How’s Luca?’

She tried her best to calm the boy, who was clearly flustered, coming face to face with the infamous Mrs Bedmaker. Kate had always been fond of Guido’s older brother, a friend of Dom’s.

‘He’s studying medicine at King’s. Mind you, I feel sorry for the person that ends up with him as their doctor, he’s still a dickhead. I know Dom and he go out in London a lot; my dad’s got Luca a flat, lucky thing.’

‘Oh.’

Kate sat back down, winded by the mention of her son. London was close to her; he would travel that distance for Luca, but not her. It was fresh information, a new picture for her to mentally draw and colour in over the coming days. Dominic, her grown-up son, out in London with Luca, who always did have the makings of a playboy. The thought of the two of them made her smile. She was happy – cut by the latest revelation, but also happy. Good for you, Dom, my beautiful boy.

‘Are you all right, Mrs Brooker? Can I do anything?’

Kate was unaware that she was now crying without restraint and that most of the group were staring at her. How she missed her kids, how she wished they were by her side. Their plane tickets nestled in her bag, just in case they had a last-minute change of heart.

‘Oh, Guido, yes. I’m so sorry. I am fine. It’s just that I haven’t seen Dom for quite a while and I rather miss him and Lydia.’

The boy scuffed his trainer toe on the highly polished linoleum and stared at his feet.

‘It was never the same after you, y’know…’

He squirmed, unsure if this was appropriate, but decided to continue anyway.

‘That night… when Mr Brooker… Mountbriers became tougher, a bit meaner. I think it’s because you weren’t there any more. I used to think you were like a spare mum; mine was always so far away, although come to think of it when she is with me, she’s pretty rubbish. You used to sort my hair out before chapel and no one else ever did, like they didn’t care. I cared that my hair was such a mess, but didn’t know how to fix it myself.’

Kate’s tears fell even harder.

‘Right, boys! Quick huddle – don’t want to leave anyone behind, do we?’

The young PE master’s voice boomed across the space. Thankfully Kate had never seen him before; she couldn’t have coped with the interaction. The group of lads jumped at his command.

Kate watched Guido saunter over to his friends. She whispered under her breath, ‘Thank you, Guido. Thank you so very much.’



The globe seemed to have shrunk since Kate had last travelled. One long sleep, a meal and two movies later and she was in another world.

With her luggage carefully ensconced in the cubby-hole, the little red-and-yellow bus jumped and jolted along the grandly named Millennium Highway. It was a name that conjured images of multi-lane motorways with traffic whizzing in an orderly fashion between neon signs and flashing lights. Kate imagined the travelator on The Jetsons, but right there on earth. In reality the road was quite different, littered with gigantic potholes, some the size of a bath tub, and the odd obstacle. In England it would have been a B road at best.

Kate glimpsed a maroon velour sofa that had been dumped on a grass verge. Three scrawny dogs were curled asleep on its plump cushions, one of them with an eye half cocked and a leg dangling, as if waiting for the man of the house to come along and shush him onto the floor. A herd of goats, tethered together, had decided to take up residence in the middle of a bend. This was not a problem for the odd motorcycle and tiny Suzuki that darted past, but a much harder job for the unwieldy bus. The skilful, whistling driver did his best to navigate the small gap, as the right-hand wheels threatened to skitter on the gravel and plummet down the unguarded hill. Kate distracted herself by looking out of the opposite window until the danger had passed.

She marvelled at the multi-coloured housing, much of it built on stilts. It was clearly the only way to construct cheaply and safely into the slopes of the steep hills. From a distance the little wooden squares of soft purple, bright turquoise and sugar pink looked like marshmallow and gingerbread housing from a fairy tale. Close up, the faded paint on clapboard, the busy window boxes and fancy net curtains billowing in the breeze was even more enchanting.

Toothless old men in vests, whose lined faces told a million stories, and high-bottomed, mahogany-skinned women in curlers lolled on the rickety terraces. Huts selling Coca-Cola, rice and peas, and the local Piton beer were dotted along the route, all well patronised despite appearing to be in the middle of nowhere. Chickens and dogs meandered in small groups; they reminded Kate of characters from Chicken Licken out for a stroll or off to buy groceries. She did a double-take to check if any were carrying little baskets or brollies and wearing headscarves.

The heat was a warm blanket, soothing her joints and easing the knots from her muscles. In her stomach she felt a swell of excitement and anticipation at what her trip might hold. Banana trees and coconut palms fought for space in the dense roadside jungle. Each turn in the winding road revealed another stunning vista of mountains or tropical forest. This was exactly what Kate had hoped St Lucia would be like. She felt happy.



The thrill of the journey from the airport was not to last. One hour after hurling her bag into the bus’s cubby-hole, Kate stepped into the huge, marble-floored reception of the Landings Hotel and instantly wanted to go home. But she didn’t have a home to go to.

The place was beautiful. Marble pillars and floors shone. The great cathedral-like ceiling of arched wood reminded her of a tall ship. It was graceful, cool and expensive. These were only three of the reasons why she felt like a fish out of water. The women, mainly American, who congregated on the over-stuffed sofas appeared to be waiting for nothing in particular. They all had with them the one accessory that instantly alienated Kate. A man.

As a group they were elegantly dressed, clutching Louis Vuitton bags and with sparkling diamonds around their wrists and twinkling from their lobes. Collectively they seemed to have decided that the appropriate attire for this green island was sheer, hot pinks, heeled sandals that clicked and clacked on the hard floors and a face full of filler. Sadly for Kate, no one had notified her of the dress code. She smoothed her palms against her thighs in an effort to remove the creases from her ditsy print frock and re-hitched her Sainsbury’s raffia beach bag up onto her shoulder. She felt more school fete than Caribbean chic. West Indian men in navy Bermudas and pristine white polo shirts hovered with hands clasped behind their backs, waiting for a hand to beckon them, either to refresh their drink or offer advice on where to dine.

Kate quickly decided the best means of survival was to hide. She couldn’t bear the thought of idling at one of the bars, bumping into these women or having to converse across a sun lounger:

‘I’m Debbie. We’re from New York, upstate. My husband? Oh he’s in banking. Yes, two boys – one at military academy, he wants to fly, and the other a business major at Harvard. Our first time? No, our sixteenth. We just love the islands. You?’

‘I’m Kate. From the UK. My first trip; I usually favour Padstow. My husband – he’s deceased. Oh no, please don’t be sorry, it was me that killed him. In fact I’ve only just got out of prison. My kids? Oh, not speaking to me because of the whole murdering their dad thing… Ooh, I love your bikini!’

She could see that this exchange would not result in the swapping of addresses and the issuing of Christmas cards. Instead, Kate sought out places other tourists shunned. Most wanted to be within a short, leg-stretching stroll of a paper-umbrella-adorned pina colada or an air-conditioned restaurant, but not her.

Kate spent the first two days venturing down to the beach, wandering the shoreline and then returning to the solace of her room. She lay on her vast bed and marvelled at the luxury that surrounded her. At night the chirp and peep of wildlife would serenade her to sleep. On day three she struck gold when she discovered Pigeon Island. It was the haven she had dreamed of: a quiet oasis with the ancient ruins of a British hill fort set among the junglescape.

The winding trail to the fort meandered upwards, allowing Kate to gaze in wonder at varieties of trees she had never seen before, trees with names like ‘flamboyant’ and ‘lady’s tongue’. She continued on to Signal Point without difficulty; the steep incline was a welcome workout after a couple of days of inactivity. Alone on a fortuitously placed section of wall in the midday heat, she watched the white boats bob on the ocean, pulling tiny water-skiers that bumped over the water like model railway dolls. She ran her fingers over the warm hunk of granite on which she perched. Sitting in its shallow, bottom-shaped well, she wondered at the many hands that had touched it during the two hundred years since it had been placed there.

Kate reflected on the super-human effort that must have gone into hoisting this gigantic boulder from the deck of a ship all the way to the top of the outcrop, some three hundred feet high. She pictured the tanned muscles slick with sweat, hauling and grunting under the relentless alien sun, maybe thinking as they toiled of ports and loved ones on the glistening, damp cobbles of their English home. It saddened her a little that their efforts were now diminished as this chunk of watchtower was reduced to providing a seat for weary bums.

It felt surreal that only weeks ago she was staring at shiny, white-painted walls, prison bars and bright blue carpet tiles whilst listening to the squeak of rubber-soled shoes as the guards patrolled the hallways after dark. It was difficult to imagine Marlham and its inmates going about their same daily routines, but without her there. She had felt similarly about Mountbriers after the huge cataclysm that had occurred there, finding it hard to envisage the mechanics of the school continuing to grind. She decided that the sudden absence of a person or dramatic change in a situation was not dissimilar to a wound: the loss would be painful at first, but would eventually heal, closing over and growing anew, like skin.

On her way back from Signal Point, Kate stopped at the Jambe de Bois Café. The rickety wooden café was known for its bright local art work, cold drinks on hot days and the best homemade food under the stars at night, or so it claimed. She treated herself to a chilled Piton beer before settling on the tiny beach next to the jetty. She was having the most perfect day and could feel the warm glow of a tan spreading on her skin. It felt wonderful.

Kate drew long, slow breaths as though clearing her head, enjoying this new feeling of peace. She could do whatever she wanted. There was something quite liberating about travelling alone for the first time in a foreign country; it made her feel adventurous, reckless and young. She could only imagine the amazing freedom that a gap year offered; there hadn’t been such a thing in her youth, it was one of her many ‘if onlys’.

A little girl wearing T-shirt and pants clopped along the shoreline, kicking up a spray and stopping only to paddle in the shallow waves that lapped at her chubby feet. Her hair was styled into coiled knots, each at the centre of a square, an intricate design that fascinated Kate. She put her age at around four. She was adorable. Her large eyes framed by thick, curly lashes sat in a heart-shaped face; her grin was wide and infectious. She ran towards Kate and stopped in front of her.

‘Hello.’

The little girl smiled, but didn’t reply. Stretching out her arm with her fist coiled tightly around a small object, she beckoned with her other hand for Kate to do likewise. Kate stretched out her arm and opened her palm under the girl’s hand, just in time to receive a precious gift. It was a shell, approximately two centimetres long. Its end curled into a flawless point with a pale pink lustre that shone in the sunlight. It was perfect. Kate remembered finding a similar shell in Cornwall and giving it to Lydia when she was about the same age.

‘It’s the same colour as a rainbow, Mummy!’ her daughter had squealed.

‘Yes it is. That’s because it’s magic, Lyds.’

‘What’s it made of?’

‘Tiny pink shells are made from mermaids’ fingernails.’

Kate dug her toes into the sand and nursed the cool beer between her hands; she could hear the shouts from an impromptu ball game on the adjoining beach and the repeated thwack of a ball against a bat. The sounds of the children shouting and laughing with careless abandon took her mind back to that holiday when Dominic and Lydia had been small.

They had gone to Padstow for a long weekend, and to outsiders it must have looked like an idyllic summer break. The young family wandered the rock pools by day, caught tiny crabs in brightly coloured buckets, wolfed down fish and chips on the sea wall and ate every other meal al fresco. As the sun set and the temperature dipped, the children were tucked into miniature beds, exhausted by their seaside adventures.

By day, they made the beach their playground, lying on the sand, digging a hole, and making repeated trips to the shoreline to retrieve unwieldy buckets of freezing sea water that would be soaked up as soon as they were tipped in. Despite the futility, trying to fill their hole with water kept the kids occupied for hours. Their tiny feet pounded the mud-like sand back and forth, leaving smudged footprints that would be sucked back into the beach, disappearing in minutes.

It was only anyone close enough to hear who would have caught the unpalatable topic of conversation. As the family sat on the tartan blanket and shared sandwiches, Mark decided to open a debate with his baby children.

‘So, Dominic, who do you love the most, Mummy or Daddy?’

The three others had looked on as his little face had crumpled in contemplation.

‘Both the same!’ the little boy declared as Lydia clapped her hands at this happy resolution.

If only it had ended there. Mark, however, was far from satisfied.

‘No, Dominic.’ His voice was firmer this time. ‘You can’t say both the same; you have to love one of us more than the other, you have to love one of us the best. Is it Daddy? Do you love Daddy the best?’

Dominic had wrinkled his nose and looked from his mum to his dad and back again. His mummy was looking down at the ground and didn’t seem to be joining in. This made his decision easier; he could give the answer that he knew his dad wanted to hear.

‘You, Daddy. I love you the best.’

Mark was elated, jubilant; Dominic’s reward was a tight hug in his daddy’s arms.

‘That’s right, my clever boy! You love your daddy the best because your daddy loves you the best!’

This alerted Lydia, who even at a young age did not miss a nuance.

‘Who loves Lydia the best?’ she enquired.

Mark gathered her to him and kissed her face. ‘I do, Lyds. Your daddy, I love you the best!’

‘And who loves Mummy the best?’ Lydia was not finished trying to analyse and understand the situation in which she found herself.

Mark looked her directly in the eyes. ‘No one can love Mummy the best, Lydia, because she is a miserable, skinny cow. She wants to spoil all of our fun and make us all feel miserable with her miserable face and her miserable voice and we don’t want that, do we, Lyds? We want to have fun! Do we want to be miserable?’

‘No!’ Of that and nothing else Lydia was sure; we didn’t want that at all.

Kathryn had cried as she propped her head on her raised knees, keeping her face forward and looking out to sea so as not to alarm her children.

That night as the children slept soundly in their nautical-themed nursery, with anchors painted on the floor and billowing sails on the walls, Kathryn prepared to climb the stairs and meet her fate. She hesitated before drawing together all her courage. Reaching out, she touched her husband’s arm.

‘Mark?’

‘Yes, Kathryn?’

‘I want to ask you something.’

‘Ask away!’

He said this with such joviality that for a second she wondered if she had imagined the whole horrid exchange. Such was his ebullience that if anyone overheard, it would be her that sounded unreasonable, with her formal tone and nervous, hesitant air. A miserable cow.

‘I would like to ask you, Mark…’

‘Yes?’ He gave a slight nod, encouraging her to speak out.

‘I… I would like to ask you not to turn the children against me.’

He didn’t respond and it was this silence that she mistook for acquiescence. It gave her a small jolt of courage, enough to continue.

‘I put up with a lot, Mark, and I don’t care what you do to me, but I beg you, please, please do not be mean to me in front of the children because they are everything to me and it’s not fair on them or me. They are all that I have and it’s the one thing I can’t cope with, I really can’t.’

He moved quickly and without warning, striking her hard across the mouth with the back of his hand. It was the first time that he had properly struck her. Her mouth filled with the iron-tasting liquid that she recognised as her own blood and her lip felt enormous against her teeth as it swelled in response to its lashing. A round splat of scarlet stained the pristine floor.

Mark bent to where she had fallen at the bottom of the white-painted stairs with their thick, rope banister. He stroked her hair tenderly, removing the stray tendrils of her fringe that had stuck to the blood which oozed from her split lip. He shook his head gently from side to side as though placating a clumsy child who had hurt themselves by accident.

‘I am very pleased that you don’t care what I do to you and with that in mind you have got yourself a deal, missy.’

He reached out and gently took her hand before leading her along the narrow cottage corridor to their holiday room. Kathryn sat on the edge of the bed and slowly unbuttoned her shirt with trembling fingers. Shock rendered her numb.

Mark removed his socks from his feet and with almost choreographed precision he stepped forward and stuffed one of them into her mouth. She gagged, fighting to control the automatic reflex, knowing that if she were sick, she would surely choke.

He laid her face down on the mattress and whispered into her ear through gritted teeth. ‘You are a very, very bad girl and you have amassed eleven points for offences too numerous for me to recount. But considering that you don’t care what I do to you, this is all well and good, isn’t it?’

He proceeded to punish her. Within seconds it was evident that he needn’t have bothered with the gag; she wasn’t going to scream or make a noise. She lost consciousness almost immediately.

When she awoke in the early hours of the morning, he had removed the sock from her mouth and for this she was grateful. Her lips were dry, her throat sore and parched. She stretched her hand out towards the glass of water that sat a fingertip’s reach away.

‘Would you like a drink, Kathryn?’

She nodded that yes, she would like a drink.

‘I bet you would. But no. No drinks for you, my darling, not this morning.’

She tried to swallow, her tongue swollen, her spit thick with thirst, her throat raw from being suffocated and her lips swollen and encrusted with blood. She rolled onto her side and cried into her pillow, trying not to think about the pain in her thighs, not wanting to look at how he had damaged her this time.



Kate shook her head, trying to erase the image of that particular weekend. Every vaguely happy memory or event that she associated with her children was tempered by the dark shadow of her husband’s abuse. It was as if she were an actress in a play: whilst on the stage, lots of wonderful and exciting things would happen to bring her joy, but she couldn’t stay on the stage forever and as soon as she hit the wings, Pow!, dreadful things would befall her, things that she had no hope of avoiding, ever. All she could do, day after day, was face the audience and grin, trying to hide her misery whilst secretly hoping that one of them might see through her smile and rescue her.

Kate looked at the grinning child in front of her and pictured her own little girl placing the magic gift of a mermaid’s fingernail inside her pocket to keep it safe. She blinked and swallowed the tears that threatened to spill.

‘Thank you so much. Is this for me?’

The little girl gave a small nod.

‘Well, this is certainly the best present that I have been given in a very long time. I shall treasure it!’

‘There you are, Matilda!’

Kate looked up in the direction of the voice. The man strode towards them; he was tall and broad with braided hair hanging uniformly to the nape of his neck. His black skin gleamed under the sun, giving definition to each muscle; he was beautiful. He strode through the sea, which washed over his bare feet and soaked the bottom of his cargo pants. He was no stranger to beach life.

‘Ah! I see she has made a friend!’

He smiled at Kate, revealing dazzling, perfect white teeth. Kate could see where Matilda got her smile from.

‘She’s fabulous.’

‘Yes she is.’ With his hands on his hips, he nodded in agreement.

‘And she brought me a present; some treasure, no less.’ Kate opened her palm to reveal her gift.

‘Treasure indeed!’ His eyes twinkled.

‘I shall keep it forever; it will always remind me of here.’ She meant it.

‘That’s good. You are obviously a person that recognises real treasure when you see it. Where you from?’

‘The UK. Just here on holiday, three weeks of escape.’ She laughed, aware that she sounded slightly giggly.

‘What are you trying to escape from?’ He looked at her earnestly.

‘Oh, I don’t know really.’

Kate chewed her bottom lip. Her tears threatened to fall despite her best efforts to control her emotions. The memories of her kids on the beach were so strong, it was agonising. She missed them so badly that it had become a physical ache and now that someone was being nice to her, it made it all the more unbearable somehow.

‘I’m so sorry. Seeing you here with your daughter… I haven’t seen my own daughter or my son in quite some while and it’s the little things that remind me.’

He slumped down next to her on the sand.

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Matilda isn’t my daughter, but I do get to look after her and twenty-five like her.’

He stretched out his hand. ‘I run the youth mission up at Dennery. My name is Simon.’

Kate shook his hand.

‘It’s lovely to meet you, Simon. I’m Kate Gavier, just Kate.’

She sniffed the creep of tears back to their source.

‘Wow! Twenty-six kids? That takes some doing! Is it like day-care, a nursery?’

Simon smiled. ‘It’s a bit more than that. Day and night care, three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. It’s their home.’

‘Are they all little like Matilda?’ Kate was fascinated, picturing rows and rows of cots and cribs.

‘Well they were once! But, no, a mixture of ages; sometimes they come to us as newborns, but more often it’s when they get a little older, when things get too tough for Mum or Dad, various circumstances. We get teenagers too, in need of guidance and a place to stay.’

‘I think the mission sounds amazing.’

Simon nodded, quietly. Kate felt her cheeks blush, aware that she could have easily substituted ‘you’ for ‘the mission’. It disconcerted her that there were calm, good men like Simon, with such capacity for kindness, whether to a child in need or a stranger on a beach, and yet men like Mark also had a place in the world, men who were the exact opposite.

‘Your accent is hard to place, where is it from?’

Simon laughed, a low, deep chortle. This obviously wasn’t the first time he had been asked that.

‘Ah, therein lays a tale. I shall give you the twenty-second version; are you sitting comfortably?’

Kate nodded.

‘I was born in south London, Battersea to be precise, illegitimate, mixed race and in those days, this did not bode well. I was put up for adoption as soon as I was born and someone was smiling down on me! I was adopted by a Canadian couple who were living in the UK at the time. We then lived in Canada from when I was eight until my thirties, until I was called home. My birth father is St Lucian and here I have been ever since.’

‘That’s quite a twenty-second tale!’ Kate smiled, thinking that her own could match it in terms of intrigue and adventure. ‘“Called home”, that’s a nice phrase. Nice to be needed.’

‘Oh yes, and needed I was, although I didn’t know quite what my purpose was when I first arrived.’

Kate found his slow speech and warm tone quite hypnotic.

‘Did you come back because of your father?’

Simon laughed again loudly and open-mouthed. ‘Yes, yes I did, Kate. That is exactly why I came home – because of my Father, but not in the sense that I am sure you intend it. I was called here by God. You can call me Simon, but on the island I am known mostly as Reverend Dubois.’

‘Jesus!’

‘Exactly. Amen.’

‘No, I mean, I would never have guessed. You don’t look like a man of God!’

His ready laugh again boomed into the surf.

‘I see. And what are we supposed to look like?’

‘I don’t know really.’

Kate pictured the bald, sober chaplain at Mountbriers and the ancient decrepit vicar of her youth with his faint aroma of formaldehyde, his hand shaking against her mother’s best china teacup and the spit gathered at the corner of his mouth. He had elivered each word, sermon or not, as if he was bestowing the gift of insight. Whether the phrase being uttered was, ‘Yes, Mrs Gavier, I would indeed like another biscuit,’ or ‘You are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my Church, and all the powers of hell will not conquer it,’ his voice and tone had been unchanging.

Kate considered her response. ‘In my experience, you tend to be quieter, contemplative, not wearing beautiful beads or walking barefoot on the beach.’

‘We do things a little differently on this island.’

‘I can see that!’

Matilda teetered backwards and came to a stop, plonking herself bottom first into the sea. She wailed. The temperature was a little cooler than her pioneering toe-dipping had suggested.

‘Time to get her back, she wants a nap.’

Simon the man-mountain scooped the little girl up into his arms.

‘Tell you what, Kate, you should come and see us. Jump in any taxi, ask for Dennery and you’ll find us when you get there.’

He turned without waiting for a reply, carrying the toddler on one arm like she was a bunch of feathers. Kate couldn’t decide if the warm glow that had spread through her body was a result of the sun-and-beer combination or something else entirely.



It took two more days of avoiding poolside interactions, kicking her heels and internal debate before she decided that maybe Simon wasn’t just being polite but had actually been sincere with his invite. There was only one way to know for sure.

The taxi snaked up steep mountain roads that dropped away in large craters without warning. Kate tried not to picture the vehicle tumbling down the side and bouncing off the giant ferns that would offer little resistance. Deep jungle on either side was spiked by the bright blues and fiery reds of tropical plants. Without the cool breeze that wafted in from the ocean, the air was thick and the heat more intense. It was in this environment that St Lucia felt most foreign. She loved it.

The taxi driver dropped her, as instructed, in Dennery – she hadn’t wanted to be more specific about her destination in case she changed her mind. She figured that on this small island, the news would have reached the Reverend Dubois’s ears in a matter of hours. From what Kate could see, Dennery had no recognisable centre, but was a sprawling district, houses, farms and slant roofed shops all sat along tiny lanes like tributaries from the main winding road on which she now stood.

It was only once he had left that Kate realised she might still be very far from her destination. She walked along the road looking for a clue, but without really knowing what she was looking for. A small crowd of people were sheltering under an elaborate pyramid-shaped bus shelter with yellow walls and an ocean-blue roof. The hourly rain showers could be quite fierce and as the bus might come along in five minutes or forty-five, depending on the driver’s mood, the hazards he encountered en route and how many of his mates stopped him for a chat, these shelters were well used.

‘Excuse me?’ Kate spoke to no one in particular. ‘I’m looking for the Reverend Dubois, Simon and the youth mission. Am I heading in the right direction?’

Two women, one resplendent in a yellow floral headscarf and the other carrying an enormous purple plastic laundry basket, broke away from their conversation.

‘Whatya want with the Reverend? He a friend of yours?’

The two winked and laughed.

Kate laughed too; clearly she was not alone in her admiration of his beauty.

‘Not exactly, no, but he invited me over and I’m afraid I’m a bit lost.’

‘Y’aint lost girl, you need to keep goin’ and keep goin’ and y’ask again.’

‘Right. Thank you.’

Kate carried on up the hill, still none the wiser.

She followed the road’s twists and turns. Gigantic fern fronds and banana leaves brushed her face and legs. She peered once into the jungle, her stomach jumped at the knotted trunks and hanging vines, imagining each one to harbour faces and the lurking shadows of wild animals. Instead, she kept her eyes firmly on the road ahead, navigating the potholes and cracks, aware that she was climbing higher still. Her T-shirt stuck to her back and her hair lay flat against her head in spiky tendrils. She was beginning to wonder if this had been such a good idea, when a small white sign with black lettering caught her attention on the road ahead. It read ‘Prospect Place’ and beneath the words a child had painted a sun with a smiley face on it. Next to it was a quote: ‘Faith makes things possible, not easy’. This had been written by a more adult hand. Kate wondered not for the first time if this whole venture was a bit of a mistake.

She turned down the narrow lane and followed the tyre tracks until she reached a clearing. The view was magnificent. There were jungle-covered mountains on either side of the valley, with the azure ocean twinkling in the distance. It was breathtaking.

In the middle of the clearing sat a dilapidated building. It was single storey, wooden and had been painted bright green. The sun, however, had bleached it in places to a paler shade, and where the panels met windows and doors the paint was missing entirely, hanging in thin strips to reveal bare wood and knotty grains.

The main structure had smaller wooden additions tacked on to its sides, forming an irregular shape that from space might have looked like a poorly drawn pentagon. For poor it was. The whole construction seemed to be listing to the right and most of the windows were without glass, but instead had fly screen tacked over the frames. Kate hadn’t known what to expect, but would have guessed at something solid, brick, possibly hospital-like. This was very different. Welcoming and bright, but without any of the grandeur or sturdiness that she had hoped to find.

‘There you are, Kate. You found us!’ Simon clapped his hands together as he appeared from the side of the building.

‘Only just, it was more luck than judgement!’

He took both her hands inside his own. ‘Welcome. And what perfect timing, you can join us for lunch!’

Kate smiled, that did indeed sound perfect. She noted his lack of surprise at her arrival, as though he had been expecting her at that precise moment.

Inside the main building was a large T-shape of tables covered with a peony-patterned oil cloth and encircled by thirty metal-legged chairs. They were the same chairs that you might find stacked in any English village hall or being scraped along tessellated wooden floors by a Brownie pack on a Thursday night.

The hubbub of conversation stopped rather abruptly as Kate walked into the room. Each seat was occupied by a child. First glance revealed their ages to be between two and fourteen. The girls had ribbons in their plaited hair and the boys were radiant in yellow-and-orange checked shirts.

‘Everybody! This is Kate. Would you like to say hello?’

Some waved, others smiled and a couple giggled into their palms at the sight of this strange lady standing in their dining hall.

‘Hi, hello everyone.’ Kate waved back.

‘Mind your backs!’

Simon and Kate swerved to the right as a short, fat man wearing a chef’s hat swung around them both to place large platters of chicken patties on each of the tables.

‘This is Fabian – the chef, as denoted by the hat. He is also the driver – he wears a cap for that – and when he’s the maintenance man…’

Fabian nodded at her as he made a return swoop in the direction of the kitchen.

‘A different hat?’

‘You got it!’

‘And again, folks! Hot food coming through!’ This time Fabian was loaded with a large bowl of rice and what smelt like hot bread rolls.

The children sat patiently, hands in laps, waiting. Kate compared the scene to the unruly bun fight that used to ensue each morning at Mountbriers as the pupils clamoured for French toast and bacon. The bigger boys would elbow the smaller ones out of the way and girls of all ages would moan about the lack of fat-free yoghurt and demand blueberries. This was much nicer.

‘Kate, please take a seat.’

Simon pulled out a chair between two younger children who found it hilarious that this stranger was to be seated between them and could barely contain their laughter. Kate shook hands with them both. The little boy to her right reached up and stroked the ends of her hair between his thumb and forefinger, before collapsing in giggles onto the table. She smiled, having never before considered her limp, mousy hair that funny.

Simon stood centrally, raising his palms towards the roof and bowing his head with his eyes tightly shut. His big voice filled the space.

‘Lord, we thank you for the gift of food that you have bestowed upon us on this day…’

There were a few impromptu shouts of ‘Praise be to the Lord’. Simon was not finished.

‘We give thanks for all your mighty gifts, not least the gift of forgiveness. We are thankful that when we need shelter, when we need escape, we can find refuge under your mighty wing.’

A large chorus of ‘Amen’ echoed around the ceiling and then the bun fight started.

Kate noticed that when Simon opened his eyes he was staring straight at her. It made her feel a little uncomfortable.

Lunch was boisterous and exciting. Kate had difficulty keeping up with the many strands of conversation that flew across the room; the speed of the kids’ speech and the heavy patois meant she could only participate with nods of encouragement and smiles of vague understanding. She threw Simon many a furtive glance and was fascinated to watch him engage with the children, clearly interested in their snippets of news and gossip.

When their tummies were full, the children went out to play cricket and Kate was given the top job of dishwashing.

‘Is this what they mean by no such thing as a free lunch?’

Simon laughed. ‘You got it!’

‘The atmosphere here is amazing, Simon. I expected the place to be a bit sad, lots of little children without parents, but this is anything but. It feels hopeful.’

‘You are exactly right, it is hopeful. That’s why it’s called Prospect Place. Most people think “Prospect” refers to the spectacular view, but it’s the dictionary definition that best defines us: the “possibility of something happening soon, a chance or the likelihood that something will happen in the near future, especially something desirable”. These kids have had enough sadness in their short lives and it stops when they arrive here. Each has his or her own story, but they are not all without parents. Some have one or both still living on the island, but they are maybe not in a position to look after their kids right now.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, many reasons. Addiction, poverty – the two are often closely linked, and there are no social services here like there are in the UK. If your parents are living hand to mouth on the street, then so are you.’

Kate pictured her English class at Marlham. Addiction and poverty: she knew how that story ended.

‘I feel foolish, Simon. If I think of the Caribbean, I picture yachts, private jets and large cocktails being sipped through straws. I’ve only ever associated St Lucia and islands like it with luxury and wealth.’

‘And you are right; you will find both here in abundance. But sometimes, Kate, this comes at a cost. This afternoon I will take you on a little trip, I want to show you something.’

‘How lovely! We could go a lot quicker if you had a dishwasher!’

Simon laughed as they transferred the scrubbed crockery covered in suds to a waiting bucket full of clean water for rinsing.

‘Oh, Kate, there are many, many things we need before we have the spare cash for a luxury like that! Regular, reliable hot water, a decent bathroom, computers and a playroom for when it’s rainy outside. The list is long and ever growing.’

‘How is the place funded, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘I don’t mind at all. And the simple answer is it isn’t, not with any regularity. My adoptive parents back in Canada very generously send us a cheque when they can; they hold fundraisers in their church and at the university where my dad taught, but it’s often hard for them, they are not getting any younger. We sell any surplus produce that Fabian “the farmer” grows on our plot. We barter a lot, and people are very kind. The community here is small and when word gets out that we might need another room, a truck with some lumber will show up. It’s a small miracle every time!’

‘It’s a big responsibility for you, Simon. It must be hard with so many people relying on you and no guarantee for the future.’

‘I guess that would be difficult for some, but not for me. My load is light. The kids are my purpose and I feel it was why I was brought here. If I thought about the cost and what we don’t have, it would feel like a burden, so I don’t dwell on that. I concentrate on what we do have, which is an awful lot.’

‘Do you see your father… real father – your dad – here at all?’

Kate blushed as she tried to make the distinction between the man that had fathered him, his adoptive dad and Jesus.

‘Oh, Kate, that is a very long and complicated story. I did see him for a while and then he died. We were never really reconciled. It was as if when I was in England and Canada I felt quite alien in those environments and longed to be here and when here, the exact opposite. Oddly, the older I get and the less time I have left on the planet the more I gain a sense of belonging right here.’

‘I get that. Age crystallises things in a way that’s hard to explain to anyone that hasn’t experienced it.’

Simon laughed. ‘That’s because old age is what happens to other people! I know I don’t see myself how I used to view people of my age when I was young; goodness no. Anyone over fifty was ANCIENT!’

‘I feel old sometimes, Simon. Like I’m slowing down and everything I do takes slightly longer. The speed at which I take the stairs and even chew a biscuit is now sluggish, slightly laboured. I’m worried that one day soon I might come to a complete halt!’

‘You don’t look like a woman that is coming to a halt, Kate; you look to me like a woman that is on the edge, about to dive in, about to start over.’

‘Ooh, I like that. I like the idea of starting over and having new adventures before slipping gently into old age. Much better than suddenly hitting a geriatric wall and having the bricks rush up to meet me with such ferocity that I just want to shout stop!’

‘It won’t happen like that; you won’t have to shout stop!’

‘I hope not. What about you, Reverend Dubois, what does your old age hold?’

‘Oh that is definitely a topic for another day, over a cold beer.’

‘You drink then?’

‘Girl, you are so out of touch! I’m a preacher not a martyr! Everything in moderation, Kate, everything in moderation.’

‘You are an incredible man, Simon. The children are lucky to have you.’

He ignored the compliment.

‘Ah, Matilda!’

Kate turned from the sink to see her little friend hovering in the doorway.

‘Hello, Matilda, how are you? It’s lovely to see you again. I have put my little shell in a safe, special place and I look at it every day. It’s very beautiful.’

The little girl smiled.

‘Are you not playing cricket with everyone else? Did someone get you out already? I could tell you a very funny story about an important cricket match and two naughty chickens called Nugget and Kiev, if you have the time?’

Matilda hesitated, shoving the best part of her small, bunched-up fist into her mouth before deciding that no, she did not particularly want to hear that story. Besides, her best friend, Hans, had promised her a go on the tyre swing. She ran outside.

‘Is she shy?’ Kate was worried that she might have said the wrong thing.

‘No, far from it. But she hasn’t spoken since she arrived here. That was about nine months ago. She seems happy and settled, but we can’t get her to say a word. The doctor says there is no medical reason and so I’m confident that she will start talking when she feels she has something important enough to say.’

‘Did she used to speak?’

‘Oh yes! A lot! But she had a shock and it’s her way of coping. Children are wired quite simply and it’s her way of putting things in order, trying to make sense of her world.’

‘What happened to her?’ Kate whispered, not sure if she wanted to know.

‘It’s a common enough story, but no less sad because of it. She was with her daddy in a bar when he was stabbed in a knife fight. He died. Her mummy is not in a good place right now, battling her own demons, and so Matilda is here where she is loved, and when the time is right, God will find a way to heal her.’

‘Oh, Matilda…’ Kate felt an unbearable wave of sadness. Her daddy was stabbed to death. The name Matilda had fallen from her lips, but it could just have easily been ‘Lydia’ or ‘Dominic’.

‘You miss your children?’ It was as if he read her thoughts.

‘Yes, yes I do, very much. I ache for them. It’s rather complicated, I’m afraid.’

‘Can I assume it’s not only physical distance that prevents you from being with them?’

She nodded.

‘They were going to come here with me, it would have been perfect, but they changed their minds, need more time… It’s difficult. I don’t want to force them into seeing me, but at the same time I find it so hard to let things take their course, it doesn’t come naturally to me. I think I can heal them quicker, if they’d just let me.’

‘You know, Kate, it will pass, everything does. Your children will come to realise just how much you love them and how much they love you, I am certain. I’m sure they will find the path back to you. My mum is amazing; I know that no matter how much time or distance separates us, she is only ever a heartbeat away from me. It’s very comforting and your kids will seek out that comfort when the time is right, when they need you the most.’

‘Did you ever meet your birth mother?’

‘No. She gave birth and pretty much abandoned me. I don’t know if she ever held or fed me. By all accounts she was just relieved that the whole sordid affair was over. I don’t know if she ever gave me a second thought. I have prayed for her and I do forgive her lack of interest; I don’t judge her, Kate. I’m grateful for the path she set me on. I have been blessed and she did give me life. That’s pretty amazing, eh?’

Kate could only nod.

Simon threw the tea towel onto the sideboard. All the dishes and pots were now clean and in the cupboards ready for supper time.

‘How about that trip?’ he asked. ‘Your work here is done!’

‘I’d like that very much.’ She beamed.



Simon’s open-topped jeep bounded along tracks that Kate doubted were wide enough to cope if a similar vehicle should come along in the opposite direction. The thick canopy of leaves dripped with the recent rainfall. Pale crabs the size of dinner plates scurried into the undergrowth and out of the path of the roaring engine. The car stopped abruptly at the edge of a small forest.

‘Here we are.’

He smiled at Kate, his beautiful open smile that gave her a glimpse of the man behind it, a good man.

Simon strode with confidence through the copse. Kate followed in his wake, tripping as her urban feet, more familiar with the grey slabs of English pavements, struggled with the alien terrain. She trod gingerly over tangled roots and fallen branches. She slapped at her skin, trying to squish the mosquitoes who tucked into the all-you-can-eat buffet that was her arms and legs. It was worth it.

One more step forward and she knew how Lucy Pevensie in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe felt. Only Kate didn’t stumble into a snow-covered kingdom; instead she found herself in paradise.

The bay was horseshoe shaped, on a gentle incline that allowed the crystal-clear blue water to lap its shore. The fine sand was undisturbed. The trees of the wood behind them cast gentle shadows and shady pockets over the beach. Mother Nature had dotted palm trees where the jungle met the sand. It was perfect.

‘Oh, Simon! I have never seen anything like it. This is so beautiful.’

He lowered his bulk onto the sand and Kate sat next to him, bunching up her linen trousers to tan her calves. She never wore swimwear, preferring to keep her scars covered. There was no need for a towel or a blanket; this was the way to do beach life. She ran her fingers through the sand and let the gentle wind lift her hair and her spirits.

‘Not so very long ago, the whole island was like this. In the last twenty years I have seen many changes and not all of them good, Kate. I wanted to show you this bay—’

‘I can see why, it’s stunning.’ She interrupted him.

‘But pretty soon I will not be able to come here and neither will the children.’

‘What do you mean? Why?’ She thought this was his way of telling her that he was moving away.

‘It’s been sold, Kate.’

‘Sold? How can it be sold? It’s a beach, it’s part of the island!’

Simon gave a low chortle and shook his head.

‘It seems obvious, doesn’t it? But sadly it’s not that straightforward. This plot and the two either side have been bought by a large corporation and they will build a huge, luxurious hotel. They will use boulders to block access to the land. They will hire local security guards who used to play here with their kids to patrol this strip of sand and discourage me and many like me from coming here.’

‘How can they do that? It’s not like there are hundreds and hundreds of miles of beach; it’s a small island!’

‘That’s true and yet every year that is exactly what happens all over the Caribbean. Special places and stretches of beach that have been loved and enjoyed for generations are suddenly not ours any more. The island is shrinking and unless you have an awful lot of money there isn’t a whole lot you can do about it.’

‘That’s heartbreaking, terrible! I don’t understand how it’s allowed to happen.’

‘It’s a problem, but it’s just one small part of a very complicated puzzle. It would be better if more tourist dollars were invested in facilities for those who need them the most, but it doesn’t seem to happen like that. We are like every other island: we need the money that tourism brings, but it comes at a very high price.’

‘I don’t understand it, Simon. I’m trying to imagine a big company coming along and buying up England’s green spaces. Can you imagine if Exmoor, the Yorkshire Dales or the Lake District were suddenly no-go areas because they had been sold? Or Hyde Park or the Bristol Downs? People simply wouldn’t stand for it!’

‘They would if they had no voice. Sometimes money is very hard to be heard over; it talks the loudest of all.’

‘It makes me feel guilty. I’m staying at one of those flash hotels.’

‘It’s good that you are aware and I don’t want you to feel guilty. We want to share our beautiful home with you. I just wish people knew when enough was enough.’

She nodded. ‘All things in moderation, is that right?’

‘You got it.’

The two sat in silence for a moment, letting the sun warm their skin.

‘What is it you are trying to escape from, Kate?’

So suddenly had the topic been broached that his question caught her off guard.

‘Well, I don’t really know where to start.’ She dug her toes into the sand.

‘How about the beginning?’ he prompted.

‘I wish it was that easy. Actually it’s not that I don’t where to start so much as how to. I think you may feel differently about being my friend after you know a bit more about me, you being a man of faith.’

Simon smiled. ‘Isn’t that strange, Kate, that you judge me, decide on my reaction, second-guess my opinion and yet I would do no such thing to you?’

‘You don’t know what I did.’ Kate bit her bottom lip, fighting the nerves that trembled there.

‘Try me.’

She exhaled slowly, trying to think of the right phrase, of a way to deliver the information in the least shocking manner.

‘I’ve been in prison for the last five years, serving a sentence for manslaughter. I killed someone. Well, not just someone… I killed my husband.’

Kate waited for a reaction or comment. There was none and so she continued.

‘I need to start over and find a new life, but I don’t really know how to do that. I don’t know how to begin. My children, Dominic and Lydia, are angry with me and of course I understand that, but I miss them so badly that some days I can hardly breathe. My husband was a cruel man, the cruellest.’

Kate ran her palm across the underside of her thigh, in an almost subconscious gesture.

‘I spent years trembling at the prospect of being alone with him, two decades when I was too afraid to speak up, to ask for help or tell anyone how I lived. Every thought and action had to be contained. I was shrinking inside myself and I knew that one day I would disappear completely. I don’t regret what I did, Simon, but I do regret the hurt I have caused others. And then I feel tremendous guilt because I am finally free, but in gaining that freedom I have spoiled things for my kids.’

Simon paused before slowly delivering his words. ‘Luke says, “Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.” This is how I live my life and those like me that follow Jesus shall know forgiveness when they need it the most. It can bring great peace, Kate.’

‘Ah, but that’s just it. I don’t follow Him and I don’t believe. I could really have done with a spot of divine intervention over the last few years: where was your God then? I used to pray, asking for help from anyone who was listening; I got nothing. So I stopped asking – at least that was one less disappointment to contend with.’

The two sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Simon stood.

‘Come on!’

He took her hand and pulled her towards the shoreline. Without waiting to test the temperature and without the caution of those less comfortable in the ocean, he ploughed on until he and Kate were wading waist-deep in the water. Eventually he stopped and grasped her hand. Her linen trousers clung to her.

He placed his hand on her lower back.

‘Stand very still.’ His voice was almost a whisper.

Kate did as she was told. The sediment they had disturbed quickly settled around their toes until it was like looking through dappled glass.

‘Look!’

Simon pointed downwards. It took a while for Kate’s eyes to adjust to their watery filter, but when they did she could see tiny silver fish darting around her feet. A small crab scurried into a hole on the sea bed and a larger fish sniffed at the new obstacle that had appeared in his playground.

‘Can you see the tiny fish, Kate?’

She nodded. ‘Yes! I saw him!’

‘Do you think that the tiny fish is aware of everything going on up here above the surface?’

‘I doubt it.’ She chuckled.

‘You’d be right. He swims along in the warm water, looking for shade, searching for food and interacting with the other little fish that he meets. He is thoroughly preoccupied with the small things that fill his day and has no idea about the beach, the island, countries, buildings, men and their machines, airplanes, currency… in fact anything that makes up the world that exists right over his head. But you know what, Kate? Just because he is unaware of it doesn’t mean that it isn’t there.’

Kate turned her attention from the water to the man standing next to her who was now holding her hand.

‘Are you saying I’m a tiny fish?’ She smiled.

‘Yes, Kate. That is exactly what I am saying. God is there whether you choose to look for him or not and he is all about forgiveness. I want you to try and remember that hope comes in many forms; sometimes it’s an idea or a place and sometimes it’s a person.’

Kate threw herself backwards into the warm Caribbean current. It had been a long time since she had swum. The salt water stuck to her eyelashes and stung her sunburnt skin. She felt alive.

‘Maybe I like being a tiny fish!’ she shouted.

Simon watched her swim underwater deeper and deeper into the ocean.

‘Maybe you do.’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘Maybe you do.’



It had been a long day, but one that Kate would never forget. The jeep purred as it drew up outside the entrance to The Landings.

‘I don’t feel quite as comfortable about sleeping in my beautiful marble-floored bedroom now I know its true cost,’ she mused.

‘If not you then someone else, Kate, and at least your head is fully informed as it hits the feather pillow.’

She smiled at him.

‘We have a Prospect Place outing tomorrow to Carnival – would you like to come with us?’

I’m not sure. I don’t want to burden you with my company.’

‘It’s a pleasure not a burden and besides, no good comes from refusing an invitation to Carnival.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Oh yes. Many, many years ago the owner of one of the big plantations was invited to Carnival along with her entire household. She politely refused as she had a royal delegation staying at the house, but that meant she refused on behalf of everyone. A young kitchen maid was so angry and frustrated to be missing the celebrations that she grabbed a handful of nutmeg and shoved it into the cake mix. Too much nutmeg is never a good thing and legend has it that the royal party spent the evening hallucinating and were then violently sick and confined to their beds.’

‘Ooh, sounds grim. That’s a shame – I love nutmeg!’

‘All things in moderation.’

Kate laughed. ‘Is this a ruse to get me to wash up again?’

‘You got me!’

Kate watched the lights of the jeep disappear into the night. She hadn’t wanted the evening to end.

Lying awake and listening to the chirping crickets and croaking frogs, her tummy had a bubble of anticipation that wouldn’t allow her to sleep; she couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this way. Maybe this was what it felt like to dive in, start over.

* * *

Kate was woken by the unfamiliar ringtone of the phone by her bed. It was a full three seconds before she registered where she was. Through the fog of deep sleep she grappled in the half light towards the noise.

‘Yes?’ She blinked hard and rubbed at her eyes, trying to quickly reach a state of alertness.

‘Good morning, Ms Gavier, I have a telephone call for you.’

‘Oh, right, thank you.’

Her heart beat a little too fast for comfort. Questions fired in her brain: what had happened, why the need to call at this hour, who was it? She glanced at the red digital clock display on the television. It was four in the morning. She listened to the change in tone, no longer the sharp, tinny sound of hotel reception, but a silence that was softer, further away. Kate could make out the faint sound of irregular breathing.

‘Hello?’ she ventured, sharper than was usual. The silence unnerved her.

‘Mummy?’

‘Oh!’ The breath caught in her throat. Kate sat upright and shook her head to clear the doubt. Had she heard correctly?

‘Mum, are you there?’

It was the unmistakable, beautiful voice of her daughter.

‘Yes! Yes, Lydi, I’m here. I’m right here.’

She clutched the phone between her palms, pushing it hard against her ear and mouth, trying to get closer.

‘Is everything all right, darling?’ It was an odd question, given that they hadn’t spoken for five years, but Kate’s immediate concern was that there was an emergency.

‘Yes. I wanted to talk to you.’

‘I wanted to talk to you too. I’ve wanted to talk to you for so long…’

She heard Lydia swallow.

‘Thank you for the tickets and everything, Mum.’

Mum… Mum… Mum… Was there any word sweeter?

‘I really didn’t feel like I could come. I’m just not ready, not yet. I hope you understand.’

‘It’s okay, Lyds, it’s all okay. It is wonderful to hear your voice, so wonderful. I can’t tell you how much I miss you, every second of every day. I just wanted us to have time to talk.’

Kate wasn’t sure how much to suggest, how much to push.

‘Thing is, I’m a bit scared about seeing you, Mum.’

‘What are you scared of, darling?’

Kate’s eyes pooled with tears; the idea of her little girl being afraid of her in any capacity horrified her.

‘I’m not scared of you exactly. But I’m worried about seeing you and I’m just as worried about not seeing you. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do.’

‘That’s understandable, Lyds; there is no rule book for this. We have to find a way through it together. I can only say that by seeing each other we can sort out all the things that are scaring you. One by one we can go through them and figure them out together.’

She was throwing her daughter a rope and when Lydia caught it, Kate would pull her in and never let her go.

‘It’s kind of hard to explain, Mum. I’m worried that you might have changed, you might be really different now—’

‘I’m still your boring old Mum. It’s still me, Lyds, I promise.’

‘I’m also worried in case how I feel about you has changed. I’m worried that I might not love you the same any more.’

Kate was silent as tears slid down onto lips that mouthed a silent prayer: Please love me, please don’t stop loving me.

Lydia’s voice had dropped to little more than a whisper. ‘If I don’t see you, Mum, I can pretend. I pretend that you and Dad are away somewhere, you know, like when you both went to Rome and we boarded for a week? I make out things are all just as they were. But if I see you, I’ll know that’s not really true because Dad won’t be with you and you will be different…’

Kate could only nod, unable to speak.

‘And sometimes, Mum, I pretend that you are both dead, and that makes it easier somehow. I pretend that you were both killed in an accident and then I don’t have to think about you doing something so horrible to Dad or about the horrible things that Dad did to you. I don’t like to think about it, Mummy.’

Her voice broke off in breathless sobs. Kate ached with the need to put her arms around her little girl and give her comfort. I’m not dead. I’m here, Lydi, I’m right here waiting.

‘Lydi, Lydi. It’s okay. It will all be okay. I promise. We can work through anything. We can take our time and talk things through.’ She adopted the tone that she had once used to lull her little girl back to sleep after bad dreams.

‘I don’t know if it will be okay, Mum. The longer I don’t see you, the harder it is for me to imagine seeing you and so it feels easier not to, if that makes sense. I sometimes wonder if it’s better just to say goodbye and only think about how we used to be, when we were happy – well, not you, but the rest of us. I thought we were a happy family, but we weren’t, were we?’

‘No, Lyds, I guess we weren’t. But I thought I could hide things, thought I could make it all okay…’ It was the first time Kate had voiced this admission.

‘And that’s part of it, Mum. All I have is my memory of my family, but now I know that it was all rubbish. You and Dad were making it up; it was all fake, all of it.’

Her voice faltered.

‘And that’s tough, knowing that my whole life and the people I trusted, it was all pretend. It’s like I’ve got someone else’s memories and not my own.’

She paused.

Kate waited for Lydia to gather her thoughts before interjecting with words of solution and solace.

‘I’ve got to go, Mum, I’m sorry.’

Immediately and without preamble the phone clicked. It came too quickly and without warning, leaving Kate shouting at the whirring drone.

‘No, Lydia! Please don’t go! Please, darling girl!’ she shouted into the disconnected mouthpiece, refusing to hang up, not yet.

‘When you change your mind, when you are ready, I’ll be waiting. I will always be waiting. You just give me the word and I’ll come and find you.’

Kate continued to hold the phone to her face as she sobbed into the dawn.

She watched the sun rise through swollen eyelids raw from crying. She replayed Lydia’s words over and over until they were there for perfect recall and would be until her dying day. ‘My whole life and the people I trusted, it was all pretend.’ Kate tried to imagine being robbed of her childhood recollections, the very foundation of the life created by her parents, everything that made her feel safe and secure. Whatever the situation, however bad things got, Kate could mentally escape to a time of laughter and joy. The thought of that being taken away was too horrible to contemplate.



The midday sun was fierce and Kate wasn’t sure that going to Carnival was such a good idea. She felt cloaked in desolation and wasn’t keen to be around people. But the idea of spending the day pacing her room, no matter how luxurious, was more than she could bear.

Kate shunned the taxi service into town and set out on foot with a determined bounce to her step. The main road to the island’s capital, Castries, was closed to traffic. She heard the thrum of music and the tinny echo of steel drums long before she could see anything. As she rounded the last bend in the road, she was greeted by a sight that would stay with her forever. It was as if every colour of the rainbow was dancing before her eyes. The whole island had turned out, and nearly everyone was sporting elaborate costumes adorned with feathers, sequins, ribbons or braiding.

Beautiful girls in sparkling bikinis with matching arm bands swayed in time to the music, taking great care not to dislodge the ornate headdresses that balanced on their heads. Children bounded like kangaroos among the floats, fuelled by excitement and the liberal consumption of sugar; some were dressed in miniature versions of the adult costumes and everyone looked wonderful.

Kate found Simon and the kids on a grass verge. They had spread blankets and were organising their picnic. Each child had made a headband; some were more intricate than others, but each had been handmade. They were clearly proud of their efforts.

‘Hey! Here’s Kate! Where is your costume?’ Simon was pleased to see her.

‘I didn’t know I needed one! I’ve never felt more overdressed!’ She clutched at her linen shirt and glass beads.

‘Matilda and I thought that might be the case, so we made you this.’

He presented Kate with a headdress. It was a stunning plume of pale green feathers, with gold sequins stuck in a row along the base. Kate dug deep, found her fake smile and placed the gift on her head.

‘I love it!’

‘You look like a green chicken!’

‘Good! Green chicken was what I was going for!’

The two shouted alternately to make themselves heard above the deafening music. Simon studied her face.

‘Is everything all right, Kate?’

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

The atmosphere was electric and Kate did not want to be anywhere else in the world. Carnival was the distraction she needed. Her heart jumped with every drum beat and her body moved to meet the rhythm of the music that ignited her spirit. Floats crawled past with bands and musicians standing on steady platforms. The procession of floats was punctuated with troops of dancers. Men, women and children in identical costumes sparkled like fireworks and moved in time to the thrum of the steel drums.

When the heavens opened, Kate raised her arms high over her head and allowed the warm tropical rain to wash over her head. She laughed, feeling a surge of optimism about her very uncertain future. At that moment in time, everything felt possible. She focussed more on the fact that Lydia had called and less on the actual words spoken, and it lifted her. ‘Mum… Mummy…’ The words twinkled like diamonds in her mind.



With Matilda’s hand in hers, the insistence of Simon and the upturned faces of the kids, it hadn’t taken much to persuade her to accompany them back home. So towards the end of the afternoon, the weary troupe piled into minibuses and made its way back to the mission. On the road to Dennery, the smaller kids slept on the laps of the larger ones and the eldest recalled the day’s highlights in hushed tones, careful not to wake their younger charges.

Simon helped all the children alight, counting them as they went and suggesting that it might be a good idea to change into dry clothes. The kids dutifully dispersed to find pyjamas or clean shorts. Fabian headed straight for the kitchen; Kate was sure he would be happy never to leave that large stove and his cramped workspace, such was his dedication to feeding the children in his care.

‘You’ve got yourself quite a family there, Fabian. You should be very p… p… proud.’ Kate shivered and stammered through her words.

‘I am very proud of them all, but look at you – you’re freezing, drenched through! And as amusing as it is to see, you have green dye all over your face. I think someone got their feathers wet!’ Fabian shook his head, with his hands on his hips, as though he was addressing one of the children.

‘I did!’ Kate laughed, wiping at her forehead and cheeks.

‘Why don’t you have a hot shower and lay your clothes in the sun; it shouldn’t take too long to dry them out. I can fetch you something to put on, how does that sound?’

Kate grinned though chattering teeth and nodded. A hot shower sounded like bliss. The bathroom was larger than she had expected, but contained nothing more than a pipe sticking out of the wall, a small grate in the concrete floor and a plastic shower curtain suspended across the room. Having hung her towel on the hook and lowered the latch on the door, she watched the brown water spurt sporadically from the pipe. Whilst it didn’t look too appealing, it was hot and that was all that mattered.

Kate observed her skin turn from goosebumpy to mottled and felt warm once again. She soaped her face and watched the green dye dribble down the grate. It had been a brilliant day.

She pulled back the curtain and turned the handle to stop the water. Standing with her back to the door, she ran her fingers through her hair, attempting to dry and style it with the tips of her fingers. What with the guttering sound from the pipe as the last of the water hit the concrete floor and her tuneless rendition of ‘One Love’, Kate didn’t hear Simon’s knock.

The door creaked as the latch was raised. It was as if time froze for the briefest moment. Neither moved, each uncertain of how to react.

Simon had assumed he could hang clean, dry towels on the hooks and retreat as he often did, ensuring there were enough towels for the kids in the endless cycle of laundry. Kate had forgotten to lock the door.

It wasn’t her naked form that drew Simon’s stare, but the latticework of scars that crisscrossed her bottom and the back of her thighs. They had the look of deliberate, patterned tracks that could not have occurred by accident.

Simon narrowed his gaze, as though by changing his focus he might alter the sight that greeted him. Kate quickly placed her hands over her breasts, even though they were the only bit of her that was hidden from view. A blush crept along her neck and chest, and the breath stopped in her throat. She was beyond embarrassed; she was mortified.

No one ever saw Kate’s scars. Keeping them invisible, she could pretend that she had not suffered all that she had, and avoided having to deal with the judgement and sympathy of others. Her mind flew to the last and only person other than the perpetrator who had seen her body. The police doctor had stuffed his fist into his mouth to stem the urge to vomit. She would never forget it.

Kate did not want to elicit a similar response from Simon. She couldn’t decide whether to reach for the towel and hide the evidence of her shameful existence, or to stand still and hope that he would simply disappear. Her indecision rendered her useless; she looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming train and felt just as scared. It was horrible for them both.

There was silence as each wondered how to proceed, how best to salvage some semblance of dignity.

Simon almost rushed forward as he grabbed the towel from the hook and wrapped it around Kate’s back, partly covering her modesty. He pulled her backwards against his body, folded his large arms across her chest and held her tight. Kate eventually relaxed in his embrace and, still facing the shower wall, enjoyed the feeling of being held, protected. She closed her eyes and spoke to the strong man whose face she could not see, but whose arms held her fast.

‘My husband, Mark, would allocate me points, each and every night. I would be given points for not doing a chore properly or for not listening well enough; for not asking the right questions or for reading when I should have been working. I was always doing something wrong. Depending on how badly I scored would determine how deeply he would cut me. To cut me he would use a razor blade that he kept wrapped in a small piece of waxed paper in the drawer of his dresser. You can’t imagine how scary it was to hear that drawer slide open. When he had finished cutting me, which could take anything from seconds to a few minutes, he would rape me. That’s how I lived, for many, many years.’

‘I have never heard anything so sad. What sort of man would want to cut you?’ Simon’s voice rose and quivered.

‘Cut me and then rape me. What sort of man would do that?’ she repeated slowly, her voice devoid of expression.

‘Why did he do this to you?’ Simon whispered into her damp hair.

‘I don’t really know. It was the ultimate way to control me. I’m certain it was an act of madness. I believe he was mad.’

‘Why did your family not stop him? Your kids?’

‘Oh, I never told a soul. Even now, I don’t really discuss it. He never cut me anywhere that would be seen, always on the backs of my thighs and my bottom. I pretended to my children that nothing was wrong and Mark seemed to genuinely believe that nothing was wrong. Between us, we deceived everybody.’

‘For very different reasons, though, Kate. One to preserve the charade through goodness, the other through evil.’

‘I guess.’ She liked his simple logic; it comforted her.

Simon shook his head and squeezed her tighter, as if by doing so he could absorb her pain.

‘Can I look at your scars again, Kate?’

She half shrugged, not sure if she was comfortable with the idea.

Simon slowly unfolded his arms and stepped backwards. He stared at the geometric pattern, which reminded him of a burn. Reaching out confidently and starting at the base of her back, still damp from the shower, he ran his smooth palm over her buttocks and the backs of her thighs, feeling the bumps and lines beneath his fingertips. He was the only man ever to have done this. She didn’t flinch, but instead felt warmth spread through her body.

‘These are your battle scars, Kate. It’s a battle that you will win. I promise you. You are beautiful.’

Kate’s shoulders shook as a large sob made her body heave. Fat, salty tears snaked down her face. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had told her she was beautiful. She wished she was strong enough to respond to the feelings those words awoke within her.

Neither Kate nor Simon heard Matilda creep into the bathroom. The little girl was interested as ever in the whereabouts of her protector, and was still intrigued by the kind lady who’d liked her shell present. Ducking around Simon’s legs, Matilda trod with caution until she stood between them, in front of Simon and behind Kate, who was trying to compose herself. Slowly she reached with outstretched hands and ran the pads of her dimpled fingers over the back of Kate’s thigh.

‘Ouch! Poor Kate.’

Simon smiled and bent forwards, scooping Matilda into his arms. He threw her gently into the steam-filled air before catching her and holding her tight against his chest.

‘That’s right, Matilda! Ouch indeed.’ He grinned widely. ‘Did you hear that, Kate? She finally had something important to say and so she said it!’

Kate reached for the dressing gown and wrapped herself toga-like before joining in the celebration. Matilda had broken the spell. The three circled the bathroom, dancing on the concrete floor as Kate and Simon whooped with delight.

‘Matilda, your voice is the sweetest gift to my ears!’ Simon beamed.

Kate felt intoxicated by the joy that filled the space. She threw her head back and laughed. It was all okay; in fact it was more than okay, it was bloody marvellous.



Later, as the sun sank low in the sky and once the supper dishes had been scrubbed and dried and the last of the sequins and face paint washed from sticky hands and faces, Simon and Kate sat on the wooden step. They listened to the competing orchestras of bugs and wildlife, each making a new noise louder than the one before.

‘What a day.’ She was tired.

‘Exhausting but memorable, I hope!’

‘Oh, Simon, very memorable. I spoke to my daughter this morning.’

‘Well, praise be! That is wonderful news, Kate; a big step.’

‘I hope so. It’s given me a lot to think about. I tried for so long to protect them, keep the truth from them; I hadn’t considered that they would see me as anything other than a victim. I find it hard to shoulder all the blame…’

‘Kate, you are the only one left to blame. And it shows you have given them a sense of balance, weighing up the rights and wrongs, forming their own judgement; that’s healthy.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. You are very wise, Simon.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’

‘I would have brooded all day had you not taken me out. Thank you.’

‘You like Carnival, Kate?’

‘Oh yes, I like it very much. It’s the most fun I’ve had in a long while. Exhausting but fun!’

‘Well, you are welcome to Carnival anytime. Should we put your headdress somewhere safe for next year?’

Kate looked into the face of the kind man who had shown her a new and wonderful slice of a different world.

‘I don’t know, maybe. I do know that whatever happens to me, Simon, I will never forget my time here or any of you, especially Matilda.’

‘Today was a big step for her too; I hope it continues. Maybe she will talk more, maybe she won’t, but at least we know she can and she did! Wonderful.’

Simon placed his hands flat-palmed together and lifted his eyes skywards, silently offering thanks. Then he turned his attention to Kate.

‘She has touched your heart.’

‘Yes, she has. She has helped my heart, actually, and she’s got me thinking.’

‘As I said, hope comes in many forms, sometimes it’s a person…’

Kate smiled. ‘She’s got me thinking quite practically about my future and where I might be needed.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, I think that the world needs more “Simons”, more people who provide a haven for those that need it the most, and I think that I would like to try—’

‘You want a job?’ He looked fearful and hopeful in equal measure.

‘Oh! Goodness no!’ Kate laughed. ‘I can’t exactly get you a good reference and it’s too far for my kids to be able to nip over. But I think maybe I could create a Prospect Place in England. It’s a wealthy country, but that doesn’t mean that we always know what to do with people who fall through the gaps – the vulnerable, the young and the hurt. I met a lot of them in prison.’

Kate breathed deeply as she remembered the conversation between Kelly and Jojo: ‘Did you stay because of the kids? No, I stayed because of the drugs… I don’t see the kids no more…’ She wondered what they were up to now.

‘Kate, I think you would be brilliant at that.’ Simon brought her back to the present.

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Well, that feels like an endorsement!’ She beamed.

They sat in silence for a while. Kate knew that his next choice of topic was inevitable and had subconsciously been waiting for him to raise it.

‘Kate, I could never and would never condone the taking of a life, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t offer you my sympathy and understanding for how you have suffered. What I saw today—’

Kate placed her finger over his mouth.

‘No. Please, Simon, I don’t want to have that conversation, I really don’t. Can we just make out that this afternoon never happened? Can you go back to looking at me quizzically like you have since we met and not with the doleful expression you usually have when talking about one of the kids? I don’t want that to be how you see me.’

He nodded. ‘If that’s what you want.’

‘It is.’ She looked directly at him. ‘I want to thank you, not just for that, but for everything. I feel somehow renewed and ready to face the world!’

‘You were brought here for a reason, Kate, and reasons aren’t always instantly obvious.’

‘Now don’t start with that. I’m a tiny fish, remember?’

Simon laughed.

‘Also, Reverend Dubois, I don’t intend to do the washing-up here ever again. If I do manage to come back, then I want to use a dishwasher.’

Kate unfurled a small square of paper from her pocket.

‘With that in mind, Simon, my lovely friend, I want to give you this. It’s something I want to do and it will bring me a great deal of happiness.’

Simon opened the cheque and gazed at the sum. It was enough not only for a dishwasher but also to rebuild the whole structure of Prospect Place with proper plumbing, playrooms and all the things that he could only ever have dreamed of.

‘Kate, I—’

‘No. Don’t say another word. It’s for Matilda and all the Matildas that might come after her.’

Simon placed his hands on either side of her head and kissed her gently on the mouth. Kate had forgotten that there was this kind of kiss. It was very different to the kiss that you gave a child or a friend and wasn’t a kiss that scared or controlled you. It was a kiss that brought warmth to your core. It was the way a lover might kiss a lover. Simon pulled away slowly and, for the briefest of moments, the two pondered the possibility of more kissing in a different place, at a different time.

‘Kate Gavier, you are a big fish, never doubt it. You are a very big fish, my lovely friend.’