The Summer of Secrets Read Online Free PDF Page A

them in. Again, she remembered walking along a path like this with Mick. There had been ducks, and a boat that had sunk, with only the cabin poking up. Had there been more boats in those days, or was she imagining it? The ducks were still here, a scattered group dabbing at the water like busy shoppers until, at some hidden signal, they paddled off downstream.
    Two days had passed with no further sign of Victoria, the twins or the booklist. Helen couldn’t settle. She had tried to read, but the books she had now seemed somehow ridiculous, and when she sat in the garden all she could do was listen for footsteps coming to the gate. The same dialogue circled her head. She should go down to the canal. But she hadn’t been asked, and there was the ‘stuff’ Victoria had mentioned that was going to get in the way. If she pushed in when she wasn’t wanted, they would never be friends. But the canal didn’t belong to anyone, and she’d be out on a walk, that’s all. By the middle of the afternoon on the third day, she’d had enough of her own company. Anything was better than waiting. Even so, she got halfway down and turned back more than once. It was the sound of a car turning down from the main road that pushed her on. She didn’t look back, but it sounded as if it had gone into the Weavers’ driveway.
    The far side of the canal was hidden by a spread of reeds. As Helen looked across, a dart of blue shot out of the growth and sped across the surface. She stood up in a hurry, trying to track it. Was it a kingfisher? She’d never been fast enough to follow Mick’s pointing finger, had been left pretending she’d seen one. It was gone, anyway. Probably she’d imagined it. Since she was up, she carried on walking, still keeping half an eye out.
    The cottages were set back from the canal’s edge and fronted with gardens partly concealed by a thick and overgrown hedge. Beyond them, a minor road crossed the canal by way of a small hump-backed bridge, the rough grey stonework supporting long strands of trailing moss and a burst of pink and white flowers. The sound of an engine broke the quiet, changing gear with a wrench on the approach to the bridge. Helen edged closer to the cottage hedges as the car went over. She heard a spurt of gravel as it sped up on the far side. At the same moment, she saw again the flash of the kingfisher. This time it landed on a branch near to the bridge; she took a step that way, her eyes fixed on the compact shape. It was bigger than she’d imagined, and motionless on its perch, almost all beak from this angle.
    ‘They’re good luck, they are.’
    The voice came from behind the hedge, a sound so unexpected that Helen started. She turned to see the top of an old woman’s head. It nodded towards the bridge.
    ‘Good luck and prosperity.’
    Helen smiled uncertainly at her.
    ‘That’s what they symbolize.’ The woman gave a grim smile. ‘Good luck and prosperity, if you believe in it.’
    Helen looked away in time to see the kingfisher launch itself and disappear from sight. ‘I’ve never seen one before.’
    The woman gave a nod, and started to shuffle along to the gate at the end of the row of cottages. There were four in all, the gardens in various degrees of wildness, separated from one another by the remains of wooden fences. They all joined up to the one path, which ran parallel to the canal, bordered by the hedge and ending at a gate going through to the lane. Helen watched the woman bend over to place an empty milk bottle on the ground. In spite of the day’s heat, she was wearing an assortment of cardigans, and thick tights under her misshapen grey skirt. When she drew level again, she paused.
    ‘If you’re here after that lot at the end, they’re not in.’ She gave a sniff. ‘Proper crew, they are. Music and shouting at all hours.’
    She carried on towards the second cottage. Helen opened her mouth in a question, but before it came she changed her mind. Instead she