Abi’s pregnant, though she doesn’t know it yet. She and Charlie have an adventure ahead of them. They’ll be doting parents. It’s a brave thing to do, risking so much love. Too brave for Sam. It broke him.
Nicola stands a little apart, wearing her sky-blue poncho.
‘We’re here,’ she tells them. ‘You’re standing in Sundance’s field. That’s the spinney. That’s the trough.’
He knows she’s remembering the night they rode through the midsummer-scented darkness, and sat on that gate, and watched the moon rise. She didn’t want to be a part of this gathering today, she didn’t want to set foot on Tyndale ever again. Abi pressured her to come, to bring Julia and show them exactly which field they should be in. Nicola agreed because she feels guilty. Guilt can drive a person mad.
‘I was a victim too,’ she said, when Abi phoned her.
Abi laughed at her. ‘You keep telling yourself that.’
Abi is carrying the rose-covered urn. Mutesi has hold of a green plastic tub. It looks exactly like the one they had for Dad.
‘Shall we wait for a gust of wind?’ asks Abi as they prise off the lids.
‘Yes,’ says Mutesi. ‘A really good, strong gust to give them the best send-off.’
Neil is shielding his eyes with both his hands, looking across the valley towards Holdsworth.
‘What a lovely spot,’ he says. ‘I can see why they wanted to come home.’
Abi wets her finger and holds it up in the air, waiting. She looks very different today. Her hair is bundled messily into a clip. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, Converse shoes. She isn’t thinking about her work at all, or about the phone call she’ll soon be getting from the clinic. She’s made all of this happen. She’s doing it for Sam.
He senses the gust before it arrives. It stirs the treetops. It plays in the grass, lifting tendrils of hair around Abi’s face. Julia runs headlong into it, yelling at the top of her voice. There’s so much joy in her. That makes him happy. She’ll be all right.
‘Now?’ asks Abi.
‘Now!’ cry Mutesi and Neil.
Together the two women tip their urns. Ashes pour out in a cloud of fine dust, mingling and billowing for one last moment before the air lifts them. Then they fly and tumble, swooping across Sundance’s field like a swarm of bees.
Acknowledgements
I was in a crowded café with my friend Liz Tovey when I first glimpsed the idea for this book. I interrupted our conversation and began to babble about it. This behaviour must have appeared unhinged but Liz remained—as always—thoughtful and interested. Just days later she learned of her tragic illness. It is a measure of her fundamental generosity that as time passed she continued to encourage me while her health deteriorated, never failing to ask for a progress report on ‘the siege story’. Thank you, Liz. I finished the darned thing. I wish you were here to see the result of that day’s brainstorming.
I owe heartfelt thanks to Jane Gregory and her team at David Higham Associates, especially Stephanie Glencross; to Annette Barlow and Ali Lavau at Allen & Unwin for their editorial wizardry; and to Angela Handley for keeping the whole show on the road. Thanks also to Clare Drysdale and Kate Ballard in London for their unflagging support.
To Tim Meredith, who has fixed more than one mower and ploughed more than one Sussex field: thank you for knowing about haymaking, hedgerows and ancient Land Rovers; for all those cups of coffee made just right; and for putting up with this whole writing malarkey.
George, Sam and Cora. Thanks for travelling with me.
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