Girl of Shadows (20 page)

‘No. He’s a bit flash, but he’s loyal to you. He’s a good man, Jack. You could put the safe somewhere else. What about in your room?’

‘I’m hardly ever in my room. And I don’t actually want it over in the hotel, I want it here where I can see it.’

‘You didn’t see it being broken into, though, did you?’ Friday said. ‘Does this house have a cellar?’

‘No. It’s built on solid rock.’

‘Then where does that little wooden door by the back steps go to?’

Elizabeth sat down at her desk and bent her head over a ledger. ‘That’s not really a cellar. More of a coal hole.’

‘But there isn’t any coal. We have wood fires.’

Evidently concentrating on her columns, Elizabeth remained silent.

‘Mrs H?’

Sighing, Elizabeth turned to face Friday. ‘I’ve some old bits and pieces of furniture stored down there, a few trunks and the like. But the steps are steep and there are huge spiders everywhere. I don’t like to go down there. It would be a ridiculous place to put the safe.’

‘Just a thought,’ Friday said. ‘Keep your wig on.’

‘Don’t you be so cheeky.’

‘Sorry.’ Friday hesitated, then said, ‘The banking, is it
your
bank account?’

‘No, it isn’t. I’m a woman — obviously. I’m not allowed to open an account. My husband had to open it in his name.’

Which started Friday thinking.

Matthew’s arm was on fire. Leo had finished shading the lion two days previously and, as it usually did, the whole area had puffed up and become inflamed, causing considerable discomfort.

After his first session he’d had nightmares about his arm becoming horrifically infected and requiring amputation at the shoulder, which had frightened him so badly he’d gone to Dolly, the Vincents’ house girl, and asked for a suitable ointment. She’d produced one but explained it was very greasy and would stain his clothing, so he’d let her dress the tattoo, the sight of which had almost caused her eyes to pop out of her head. Now, apparently and rather tiresomely, it was ‘their little secret’. Since then he’d been through half a pot of the stinky unguent, consisting of hog’s lard, white lead, red lead, bees’ wax, black resin and common turpentine. Leo told him he could use it ‘if you feel you really have to, lad, but it’ll get better by itself, you know’, but to leave the bandage off so a decent scab could form. Matthew had done as instructed, but as his shirts were indeed ruined and his arm didn’t require amputation as he’d feared, he’d recently stopped using the ointment altogether.

Soon they would start on the peony, and Matthew thanked God he hadn’t chosen some ridiculously huge and complicated design that would take months and months to complete.

Harrie was late. He had offered to escort her but she’d returned her acceptance of his invitation with a message to the effect that she would meet him here at the appointed time. It was quite a long way for her to walk. He hoped that explained her failure to so far materialise; far better that than she’d changed her mind. He’d thought last time she’d looked a little uncomfortable in the tearooms, so this time, as he was extending the invitation, he’d suggested they share a picnic in Hyde Park. It was after all the
fashionable thing to do, and he’d noted on his invitation that she need only bring herself, as he would provide absolutely everything else. And he had, including a rug on which to sit, a very nice cold dinner, a pricey bottle of wine, a cheaper spare, and one of non-alcoholic cordial in case she was teetotal.

It was hot and he would have preferred to do without his coat, but one did not go out courting in one’s shirtsleeves. His mother would faint at the very thought. It was a real pity there were no trees in the park. Oh well, he supposed it was better he appear tidy than too informal.

He raised his hand against the sun as he saw Harrie crossing Hyde Park towards him, accompanied by her friend, Friday Woolfe. Damn. He hoped she wasn’t expecting to share their picnic; there was really only enough for two. With an acidic stab of disappointment he realised that Friday had probably already told Harrie about his tattoo, which was deeply annoying as, after it was completed and nicely healed, he’d been hoping to casually mention that he happened to have one, and yes, it was in fact the work of Leo Dundas. And perhaps Harrie would ask to see it, which would necessitate him having to remove his shirt, which might just lead to …

‘Hello, Mr Cutler,’ Friday said, towering above him. ‘How’s things?’

He squinted up at her, peering straight up her nose. She laughed and moved sideways.

He scrambled to his feet. ‘Good afternoon, Harrie,’ he said. And to Friday, the tiniest bit sourly, ‘Why don’t you call me Matthew? We’ve met often enough now.’

‘Have you?’ Harrie said, surprised.

‘Well, we haven’t really,’ Friday replied, turning slightly and giving Matthew an exaggerated wink that Harrie couldn’t see. ‘But I’ll call you Matthew. I’ll call you anything you fancy. And you can call me Friday.’

Matthew perked up; perhaps she hadn’t said anything after all. ‘Would you like to join us?’

‘No, thanks, I’m off visiting.’ She pecked Harrie on the cheek. ‘Have a nice time, love. Goodbye, Matthew.’

Harrie accepted Matthew’s hand as he helped her settle on the rug, and they watched Friday sail off across the park, a vision in low-cut violet velvet that clashed with her hair, her wide-brimmed straw hat covered with a profusion of fake velvet hydrangeas. Now that the weather was warmer, she’d relegated her ‘classy’ gowns to the back of her clothes press and happily resurrected her more revealing costumes, much to Mrs H’s frustration.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ Harrie said.

‘It’s a long way to walk from the Rocks, isn’t it?’

‘Not really. I was held up.’

‘Would you like some wine? Or perhaps cordial? You must be rather hot.’

‘What sort of wine?’ Harrie asked, who didn’t know one from another.

‘It’s quite a nice French champagne by a house called Moët & Chandon,’ Matthew said casually, showing her the label.

‘Goodness, that looks expensive.’

I’ll say it was, he thought, recalling the pergola plans he’d promised to draw for a colleague’s private garden in exchange for the purchase of the wine at half its import price.

‘A little,’ he said modestly, setting out two champagne flutes he’d borrowed from Mrs Vincent. He wrestled with the wire collar around the bottle’s cork, praying it wouldn’t explode and the contents spew forth all over the rug. To his relief, he managed the task without incident and poured them each a glass, raising his in a toast. ‘To happiness and good fortune.’

‘Yes,’ Harrie agreed. ‘Happiness and good fortune.’

He watched as she lifted the flute to her lips and hesitantly sipped, looking for all the world as though she’d never tasted wine before.

Friday rapped on Adam Green’s back door and sang out, ‘Anybody home?’

‘Hang on,’ came Sarah’s disembodied voice.

She appeared a moment later hurrying down the hallway, her sleeves pushed to her elbows and her hair falling out of its normally neat, low ponytail. Under one arm was a bundled sheet and a pair of pillowslips were draped over one shoulder.

‘Still doing all the drudge work?’ Friday observed disapprovingly. ‘And on a Sunday.’

‘Well, who else is going to do it?’

‘Is Adam home?’

‘Gone to see Bernard Cole.’

‘When are you coming to pick up your things? Or should I send Jimmy up with them?’

Sarah dumped the linen on the dining-room floor. ‘Could you send Jimmy? I’m just not going to get the time.’

‘You’ve got time for tea, though, surely. Or …’ Friday whipped a bottle of gin out of her reticule. ‘A drink?’

Sarah eyed the bottle, and took two tumblers from the ‘chiffonier’. ‘Perhaps just a small one. There’s some lemons in the pantry.’

‘Bugger off. I’m not ruining mine with lemon.’

Friday sat, opened the bottle and poured: a little for Sarah, lots for her. She’d seen Sarah twice since Adam had brought her home from the Factory. Esther sending her back had shocked the shit out of Friday; she’d realised Esther was a mad bitch, of course, but that had been
nasty
. She knew all about her leaving — bloody good riddance — Adam’s consequent money woes, and him being aware all along of Sarah’s thieving. She had to say she wasn’t really surprised about the latter; Sarah was as cunning as a shithouse rat, but a man would have to be really stupid, or completely blind,
not to notice all those bits and pieces disappearing from the shop. But it was as obvious as the nose on your face — to everyone, that was, except Sarah — that Adam was bursting to give her a good seeing-to.

Actually, it was a lot more than that, as Friday was well aware. It was in his voice when he spoke to her, and the way he looked at her, and how his body tensed whenever he went within five feet of her. And now that Esther had slung her hook Sarah could help herself, if only she didn’t always insist on being such a prickly, mistrustful, independent little article. For which Friday refused to chastise her, because how the hell else were they supposed to survive in the world?

‘Did you talk to Harrie about the bank?’ Sarah asked.

Friday took a large sip of her drink, shuddered, and nodded. The gin was a bit rough. ‘She’s having a picnic with Matthew today. She said she’ll ask him about it.’

‘A picnic? Whose idea was that?’

‘Matthew’s, apparently.’

‘I hope she knows what she’s doing,’ Sarah said. ‘There’ll be tears if she’s not careful.’

‘There’re tears now, Sarah.’

They looked at each other.

‘You don’t seem that chirpy yourself,’ Friday said.

‘Neither do you. Have you been back to James Downey?’

‘What for?’

‘Well, it’s been more than thirty days, hasn’t it? Have you … noticed anything?’

‘I have been chasing the odd rabbit and barking at the full moon.’

‘It’s not funny, Friday. Don’t joke about it.’

‘Sorry, love. No, I’ve not noticed anything. I doubt those dogs were rabid. Just trained to kill, thanks to bloody Furniss.’

‘How’s your leg?’

Friday put her foot up on the table, flipped back her skirts and turned her ankle out. An L-shaped scar ran across the back of her calf, vividly purple against her white skin. There was no tissue or muscle missing, but the mark was very obvious.

‘Ugly, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘James said it’ll fade over time, but I don’t know. I wonder if Leo could tattoo over it?’

Sarah rolled her eyes.

‘What?’

‘You’ll be getting your nose tattooed next. Well, Adam and I’ve decided what we’re going to do.’

Friday moved her leg off the table. ‘Is it a secret?’

‘Yes, I’m not to tell anyone.’

‘Well?’

‘We’re advertising in the papers that “Adam Green Fine Jewellery” are offering free cleaning and valuation of jewellery. Then, when people bring their jewellery in, and they all will because everyone likes something for nothing, especially rich folk, we replace the stones with paste and either sell them on or rework them into new pieces.’

‘Can you sell them into a market as small as Sydney’s?’ Friday asked, peering into the bottom of her empty tumbler. She reached for the bottle.

‘Possibly not. Not everything. Adam’s talking to Bernard about export opportunities.’

‘Back to England?’

‘Maybe. I mean, there’s enough pinched swag coming the other way.’

‘Is there?’ Friday was surprised.

‘Where do you think Bernard gets half the stock for his shop?’

‘Hadn’t thought about it. Why would I?’

‘Some of the jewellery we’ll steal outright,’ Sarah said.

‘You don’t think someone’ll notice? Here I am, a rich matron bringing my necklace, earring and brooch set to Adam Green’s to
get it cleaned, and when I come back to collect it, it’s not here any more.’

Sarah rolled her eyes again. ‘That particular jewellery we
will
clean, value and give back. But the owner’s left a record of where they live, haven’t they, so I’ll just go to the house and pinch it later. Not all of it, obviously, we don’t want the dross. Just a few pieces we think we can best sell intact. And not so much that it looks suspicious, either. We won’t need to take much, whether we replace stones or burgle outright.’

‘But you don’t like doing house burglaries. You told me that ages ago. And what if you get caught, Sarah?’

‘What if you get caught whoring?’

‘It’s not the same,’ Friday insisted.

‘I won’t get caught.’

‘You might.’

‘I won’t.’

‘And why are
you
taking all the risk? What’s Adam doing?’

‘He’s risking just as much as I am. The only difference is I’ll be going into the houses. I’m good at it, and it won’t be very often. Let’s be honest, it’s not as though women in Sydney Town are so wealthy they own the equivalent of the Crown jewels.’

‘That is true. But why, Sarah? You don’t have to do this at all.’

‘I do. What about Janie and the girls? We have to work twice as hard now to replace the money in the fund. I’ll be taking a decent cut from the proceeds. How else can I make that sort of money? I thought I was getting away with robbing Adam but I wasn’t, was I? If he’d been any other master I’d be in third class in the Factory by now, doing hard labour. Or on my way to somewhere even worse.’

But it wasn’t
just
the Charlotte fund, and Friday knew it. Sarah enjoyed stealing, she relished the challenge and the thrill of it, and living a life that didn’t involve challenges bored her absolutely stiff. Also, this was for Adam; despite her insistence that she wasn’t interested in him, she was.

‘Well, bloody well be careful,’ Friday warned. ‘If it all turns to shit make sure you’re not the only one covered in it.’

Sarah shook her head. ‘Adam wouldn’t do that to me.’

Would he?

Hyde Park had only grown hotter as the afternoon stretched on, the remorseless sun beating down from a boundless sky and drawing up shimmering curtains of heat from the ground. Sunday equestrians trotted briskly around the riding track sweating heavily into their riding habits, their horses’ hooves kicking up dust that settled grittily over picnickers and strollers alike. A handful of ladies who’d thought ahead gratefully raised their parasols; those who hadn’t resigned themselves to headaches tonight and red noses tomorrow.

Harrie said, ‘Thing is, Matthew, we got all this money and it jus’ isn’t safe. In the safe.’ She giggled.

Matthew had moved the second bottle of wine beyond her reach, though she’d already poured herself a glass, now that she’d polished off most of the Moët. It was quite obvious she was drunk and, to be honest, he was more than a little shocked.

Aware he was being very bad-mannered, he nevertheless asked, ‘Do you normally drink this much?’

‘
Hell
no.
Never
drink. But you know, Matthew, you went to
such
a lot of trouble with this
love
ly picnic, I jus’ thought it’d be so
rude
not to have a bit of everything.’

Oh God, it was his fault. She didn’t drink and he’d forced the wine on her, and now look what had happened. What on earth would the Barretts think if he delivered her home in this state?

‘Nice, though, the wine.’ She scowled at her glass. ‘Well, the firs’ one. This one tastes like —’ She burped. ‘Ooh, par—’ She burped again. ‘Pardon. Cat piss.’

He extended his hand. ‘I’ll have it then, shall I?’

‘Nooo! I never said I didn’t wannit.’ She set her glass aside, where he couldn’t get at it. Squinting up at the sky, she remarked dreamily, ‘Dunt the sun look like a big fluffy ball of white wool? But, the money! I was talking ’bout the money! Someone tried to steal it so we need a bank ’count. You can open one for us, can’t you?’ She leant unsteadily forwards and, to Matthew’s absolute mortification, ran her hand up his leg until her fingers were only inches from his crotch. ‘Please?’

He whipped his leg away and she fell, her palm skidding along the ground. Very slowly she pushed herself upright and examined the dirt stuck to her hand, then wiped it on her skirt. Wincing, he glanced around to see if anyone had noticed.

Perhaps if he sat here and talked to her long enough she’d sober up, especially if she didn’t drink anything more. He reached around her and knocked her glass over.

‘Oh, I say, how clumsy of me.’

‘No, ’s all right, there’s more, I can see it behind you.’

‘Er, no.’ He grabbed the wine bottle and made a show of staring intently at it. ‘A fly or something appears to have fallen into it.’ He felt himself beginning to panic. ‘Tell me about this money. How much do you have?’

‘Well, ’s not all
mine
, not really. Mostly it’s Sarah and Friday’s. They been saving it. For the Charlotte fund, you know. I think there’s ’bout four thousand pounds.’

‘
How
much!?’

‘Sounds funny, eh? Pooooounds.’ She frowned. ‘No, that’s not right. Four
hundred
. No, there
was
four hundred. Oooh look, is that James?’

Alarmed, Matthew turned to see. Harrie grabbed the bottle off him and, closing one eye, peered down its neck.

‘There’s no flies in here!’

It
was
James and he was heading straight for them. Christ, Matthew thought, could this possibly get any worse?

‘Harrie,’ he pleaded, ‘would you please give me that?’

‘No.’ She threw back her head and drank straight from the bottle.

‘Good afternoon, Matthew, Harrie.’

Matthew gazed up at James, who appeared to be extremely cross. But James wasn’t looking at him, he was glaring at Harrie’s shiny red face, her long chestnut hair that had come loose and was all over the place, and the bottle in her hand.

‘James —’ she began.

‘No!’ he said, cutting her off. ‘Matthew, what is going on here?’

Matthew found himself at a complete loss for words.

‘I suggest,’ James said to him icily, ‘that you get her home as quickly as possible. And I expect to see you for supper at the Australian tonight.’

Giving Harrie a last, extremely disapproving and unmistakably disappointed look, he turned on his boot heel and strode off.

Harrie’s face crumpled and she shrieked after him, ‘
Beard-splitter!
’

Astonished, Matthew gaped at her.

‘
Selfish bloody quim-sticker!
’

Matthew waited nervously for James to arrive. He’d had to have a bath when he’d finally reached home, exhausted and sweaty from half carrying Harrie and all the picnic paraphernalia all the way back to Gloucester Street. She’d also been sick, and not very tidily. As predicted, Mrs Barrett had torn a strip off him, and shut the door in his face when he’d tried to help Harrie inside.

He felt utterly deflated, and not just because he was responsible for Harrie’s downfall this afternoon. The child-like expression of excitement and expectation on her face when James had appeared
in Hyde Park had awoken in him the unpleasant suspicion that she might be taking advantage of him just to get back at James and arouse his jealousy, and the more he thought about it the more he realised he was probably right. He wasn’t
completely
stupid. He sighed. Actually, he was, and what’s more he was stupid with a half-completed tattoo on his right arm.

He straightened his cutlery and took a sip of his drink — whisky tonight; he’d had enough of wine for one day. But perhaps not all was lost. Harrie was clearly still enamoured with James, but it was possible he might yet embark upon a friendship with her. True, friendship would not involve the level of intimacy that had so impassioned his dreams of late, resulting in embarrassing damp patches on his night attire and bed linen, but it would be better than no contact with her at all. She’d asked him to open a bank account for her and her friends, and he could certainly do that, though perhaps he might not share that little snippet with James.

Also, he really rather liked his lion tattoo, and would return to Leo to have it finished whether Harrie was ever going to see it or not. And she still might. She and James had been playing this silly game for nearly a year; surely soon they must either give in and admit they belonged together, or one or the other would bow out conclusively. If the latter occurred and Harrie was the one requiring consolation, naturally Matthew would step in. He could wait. He’d
been
waiting for ages.

‘Good evening, Matthew,’ James said. He dropped his hat and gloves onto a spare chair and sat down. Unsmiling, he waved for the waitress and asked for a whisky. ‘Have you ordered yet?’

‘I thought I’d wait for you.’

James studied the board. ‘I’ll have the mushroom soup and the beef, thank you,’ he told the girl. ‘Matthew?’

‘I think I might try the hotpot tonight, with the soup to start, please.’

‘Sirs,’ the girl said and hurried off.

James’s gaze settled rather coldly on Matthew. ‘Let’s get this over and done with, shall we? I take it you were responsible for Harrie’s condition this afternoon? Because as far as I’m aware she doesn’t drink. And what were the pair of you doing in the park, anyway?’

So, leaving out the bit about his tattoo, Matthew told him, recounting how first Harrie had invited him to tea, followed by, at his instigation, today’s outing to Hyde Park, during which he’d failed to take into account her inexperience with alcoholic beverages.

‘But it has become obvious to me that I am not the object of her affections,’ he said. ‘That still seems to be you. I suspect her invitation to me was just a ploy to inflame your passions. Revenge, perhaps, for hiring Miss Harris?’ He swapped his soup spoon with his bread knife, then moved them back again, waiting for James’s response.

There was a short silence. Then James said, ‘Did you think you
could
be the object of her affections?’

Matthew decided there was little point in lying any longer. ‘I had hoped so.’

‘And how long have you … harboured this hope?’

‘Since, well, since the voyage out, really.’

‘I had no idea,’ James said quietly.

‘No,’ Matthew agreed.

James leant back as the waitress delivered his whisky. He waited until she’d gone again. ‘And I’ve sat in this dining room for the past six months wittering on to you about my unrequited love for her. I
am
sorry, old fellow.’

Matthew shrugged, embarrassed. Trust James to be so decent about it.

‘What a pickle,’ James said.

‘Not really.’

‘No?’

‘How I feel about her doesn’t change anything, does it?’ Matthew said.

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Well, Harrie is still refusing to talk to you because of what you did after Rachel Winter died, yes?’

James nodded.

‘But today, in the park, you looked at her as though she were despicable, and you wouldn’t even allow her to speak. Do you not think a little, well, empathy might be in order? Forgive me for saying this, James, but at times you can be the tiniest bit superior.’ There; he’d finally said it.

‘Empathy?’ James exclaimed, apparently completely ignoring Matthew’s last sentence. ‘But you saw her. She was
drunk
! She was dishevelled and making a spectacle of herself and her language was atrocious! She was no better than the worst of the trollops out at the Factory!’

Really annoyed by this, Matthew gave the table top a single sharp rap with his soup spoon. ‘No, James, that’s unkind. She was just Harrie, with too much champagne inside her, and that was my fault. Don’t be so judgmental.’

James opened his mouth, then closed it again. Was he judgmental? But she’d looked so awful today, with her hair messy and her face all scarlet; everyone had been looking at her. And the names she’d called him! Emily would never,
ever
have uttered such words, even in her blackest moments. She’d never done anything questionable, or even particularly unexpected. Emily had been composed and dependable, predictable and completely reliable: she’d been the perfect wife for a doctor.

But was that really what he wanted now?

‘Different people value different things,’ Matthew said. ‘You think being drunk in the park is terrible. Harrie thought what you did to Rachel Winter’s body was so awful that she can’t forgive you.’

‘That’s very liberal and fair-minded of you,’ James said with quite a lot of sarcasm, for him. ‘Family trait, is it, that sort of thinking?’

‘Hardly. My mother’s the most dreadful snob and bigot.’

The conversation ceased as the waitress appeared with their first courses and set the plates before them.

‘If you’ve thrown your hat in the ring,’ James said, blowing on a spoonful of soup, ‘I can’t see how things can remain unchanged.’

‘But I haven’t. That’s my point. She isn’t interested in me, so how I feel about her is irrelevant. I’m just suggesting that you might
try
seeing things from Harrie’s perspective. Have you, for example, ever apologised for what you did?’

‘Apologise? Why?’

‘You see? This is exactly what I mean.’ Matthew pointed at James with his spoon for emphasis. ‘You really can’t see why you should, can you? In
your
circles it might be perfectly acceptable to go about hacking up dead people, but in hers it isn’t. Where
she
comes from, back home in London, she probably stepped over drunks in the street every day of the week and had friends who quite regularly drank too much. It doesn’t mean they were bad people, any more than performing post-mortems makes you a bad person. But you’ve offended her and now she’s offended you.’

‘I doubt she’ll apologise to me, and you heard what she called me. It was disgusting.’

‘For God’s sake, James, she was drunk. It’s not as if she murdered someone.
You
cut up her best friend. Apologise to her.’

James stared into his soup, then picked something out of it and laid it on his bread plate. ‘I’ll think about it.’

December 1830, Sydney Town

‘Good morning, madam,’ Sarah said across the counter. ‘How may I help you?’

She was wearing one of several new dresses Adam had paid for with money borrowed from Bernard Cole. Harrie and Nora Barrett had whipped them up in a matter of days and Sarah was very pleased with them, which surprised her as usually she didn’t give tuppence about what she wore. Both dresses were of good-quality summer-weight calamanco with bright floral patterns against pale backgrounds. Esther had bought Sarah the dreary sage-coloured item she had, until now, worn every day, which was now too tight as she’d put on a little weight due to her former mistress’s cooking. Harrie said that in comparison to that, the warmer colours ‘lifted’ her complexion, whatever that meant; but Sarah agreed they suited her, and so did the fitted style, which accentuated her bosom.

‘Yes,’ the woman said, as though Sarah had asked a completely different question. ‘I have some items of jewellery — extremely valuable, I might add — and I would like you to clean and value them.’ She produced a newspaper cutting from her basket and flapped it at Sarah. ‘This is an advertisement from the
Sydney Gazette
stating that this jeweller will perform such services free of charge. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, madam.’

The woman wore a bonnet with an enormous brim trimmed with pale pink knife-pleated satin and a posy of artificial blossoms and cherries, the high crown sporting a sprig of apple blossom about a foot long. Sarah was amazed she could hold up her head. Her dress, fastened over a clearly very tightly laced pair of stays, featured pink and burgundy flowers and dark green leaves on a light grey background, and she wore a lace pelerine, white lace gloves, and a burgundy paisley shawl with pink silk tassels. A charming ensemble on a twenty-year-old; unfortunately this woman was easily fifty.

All the pink in her outfit accentuated the broken veins on her face. Heavy bags sagged beneath her eyes and her jowls were heading south, giving her the appearance of a disappointed bloodhound.
Her dentures — Waterloo teeth, Sarah suspected, so she’d paid a lot for them — didn’t fit at all well (but then whose did?), and her wig of real but dyed hair peeked from beneath her bonnet, a row of startling persimmon-coloured curls aligned across her forehead and a big one beside each ear. But instead of appearing silly, the woman just looked … sad, as though she’d been led to believe that something wonderful would happen to her when she grew up, and it never had.