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within about two minutes.’
    ‘Lizzie!’
    ‘You know I would. For goodness’ sake, time to what? Visit Claire Carmichael, or Bridget Cargill? Or go up to town and most likely get bombed to buggery?’
    ‘Your language is appalling.’ ‘Don’t be so pompous.’
    ‘He’ll be off to school in September.’
    ‘Yes. I suppose he will. Eight seems so little to go.’ ‘All the others will be eight too.You’ll miss him.’ ‘He’ll miss me, too.’
    ‘It’ll be good for him.’ ‘Probably.’
    ‘Now I’m back, you won’t be lonely and bored.’ ‘You’ll be home every night.’
    ‘Every night.’
    ‘I can’t really believe it.’ ‘I know.’

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    ‘If I fall asleep, will you still be here? Tomorrow?’
    ‘Of course.And Lizzie, do you really want to know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking – just that—’
    ‘Oh don’t, you don’t need to tell me if it makes you cry.
    Don’t . . .’

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    C hapter T wo ‌
    Christmas 1947

    Dicky Carmichael would have liked a double-height hall, as some houses have, and to have had space for a really tall Christmas tree. He made do with the hall he had, and the tree did look splendid to him against all the dark wood panelling, but that was the disadvantage of having an old house – it was never exactly what you wanted. He thought he might build a new one, and please himself completely.The Tudor house was long, with rooms going off one another, and most of the party would be in the drawing room, which had three fireplaces and mullioned windows down two sides.There were bowls of punch and cases of champagne and a buffet lunch laid out over tables in two rooms – even if it was what Claire called ‘all gong and no dinner’ because of rationing. Claire had hired two girls from the village to help the housekeeper and fires were lit in all the downstairs rooms.
    The party was an annual event and a talking point; it didn’t matter about New Year’s Eve; this was the end of the year. Because it was a lunchtime party there were always a lot of chil- dren, and this was felt to be acceptable so long as they were mainly confined to the morning room and a room known as the pink drawing room, which was in fact red and had once been used as a dining room, being nearer the kitchen than the room

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    they used now.There were nannies assigned to keep control of the children, but as the day went on the children broke free and went upstairs and played sardines or murder, and the nannies surrendered responsibility and sat by the fire eating leftover cake and holding the smallest children on their laps.

    When everything was ready and the polished silver and bottles and glasses lay in perfectly arranged splendour, Kit Carmichael lay on her tummy in the hall under the Christmas tree. Occa- sionally a maid or her mother or Dicky would pass by, carrying something or instructing somebody about something. She was very uncomfortable in her smocked dress, the elastic of it itched, and she hated her hair, which was tightly plaited and dug into her scalp. Gradually the sounds stopped as the servants went into the kitchen to eat an early lunch. Her parents were in the library and Kit didn’t know where Tamsin was; in her room probably, sulking about having to be with the children still, even though she was eleven.The best bit of the party was in the evening, when all the children had gone and been sent to bed.
    Kit turned over on her back and looked up through the branches of the Christmas tree. She half-closed her eyes and pretended she was in a forest and could feel snow on her face. She imagined the very soft fall of it and how each flake would melt on her cheeks or eyelids. She imagined a small, hot camp- fire next to her and wolves waiting in the trees with the fire reflected in their yellow eyes. She couldn’t hear anything now, except the crackle of the fire and the wind in the pine trees. Then there was a sound. It was the sound of a cry and a glass breaking, and then a