and

little handwritten sign tacked inside the glass

window: No junk mail please with

smiley face. This is

real. This is my nana’s house.

close my eyes and touch my fingers to the

horseshoe for luck, and before know it I’ve rung the bell.

stare at the door, my heart hammering.

Nothing.

513

wait for minute, holding my breath. Braver now,

and slightly hopeful that there’s no one in,

ring the

doorbell again like

kid playing chicken—peering

through the window as the bells resound through the

empty house.

close my eyes, swallowing my

disappointment, dizzy with sudden relief.

It’s

sign. I’m not meant to find her. She’s not

meant to know.

take

last long tender look at the house, smile,

and turn away—just as car sweeps into the driveway.

stare at it, totally exposed, frozen to the spot. The

door opens and

small white-haired woman steps out,

shrugging her handbag onto her shoulder. The lady from

the church. My nana.

“Hello.” She smiles, locking the door and walking

toward me. “Can help you?”

“H-hi,” stammer, my feet as immobile as the plastic

gnome’s. “I’m …”

I’m what? Hey, surprise, I’m your long- lost

granddaughter? She’d probably have

heart attack right

here on the driveway!

“Sorry, do you live here?”

check. “You’re Laura

Fisher?” don’t wanna give the wrong old lady

heart

attack!

“I am.” She smiles. “Forgive me, you look familiar,

but

do know you?”

“I’m …” stare at her, lost for words, dumbstruck by

her sparkling blue eyes, her easy smile. She’s old—so

old—and yet there’s something youthful in her eyes.

514

“I’m Holly,” say finally.

She looks at me afresh, recognition sparking in her

eyes.

“Of course you are!” She beams, her whole face

lighting up. “Hello, Holly!” she smiles, her eyes twinkling

at me. “I’ve been expecting you.”

515

Rosie

The sliding doors hiss open with

blast of warm

air, but Jack just stares at them, unable to move, his face

unreadable.

“Jack?” say gently. “Jack, are you okay?”

touch his arm and he looks up, startled.

“Yes,” he says, “yes, I’m fine—it’s just …” He

hesitates, his eyes sweeping over the door, the entrance,

the reception within. “Jeez, the last time was here …”

nod. “I know,” say quietly.

Memories slide across his face, clear as our

reflections in the glass as we step inside. The warm air

breezes through my hair as our footsteps squeak on the

shiny lino and I’m bombarded with smells—cleaning

fluids and disinfectant and mashed potato

and million

memories hurtle back at me: broken arms and ankles as

child

that awful night of the prom

visiting Mum

my

encounter with Jamila just few weeks ago

glance at

Jack, unable to even imagine what he’s going through.

Somehow we arrive at the reception desk.

“I’m here to see my daughter,” Jack tells the

receptionist. “Holly Woods? She had an accident.”

The receptionist checks her computer screen.

516

“Woods?” she says. “I’m sorry, Ms. Woods was

discharged earlier this morning.”

Jack stares at her. “She’s not here?”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, do you know where she went?”

She looks up at Jack, then glances at me. “No, sorry,

don’t.”

Jack looks as if he’s about to burst.

“Hang on—Nurse Willows!” My heart jumps as she

calls over our shoulders toward the entrance. “Miss

Woods was your patient, wasn’t she? Do you know where

she was heading to?”

We both turn as

blond woman looks round,

pulling her coat on over her uniform.

She starts to speak, then stares at me.

“Rosie! What are you—”

“Hi, Sarah,”

say, my cheeks burning as

glance

anxiously at Jack, whose face is draining of color.

“Sarah?”

517

Holly

stare at Laura, dumbfounded. She’s been expecting

me?

“Andrew rang

couple of days ago.” She smiles,

unlocking the door and ushering me inside. “He said you

might pop round. understand you know Rosie?”

“Yes—yes, do.” stare at her uncertainly. What has

Andy told her?

“Come in, come in!” She beams. “It’s freezing out

there!”

follow her nervously into the house. It is warm

and homey and smells of toast.

“Now, you make yourself comfy in the lounge.”

Laura smiles. “And I’ll pop the kettle on.”

step gingerly into the living room, my feet sinking

in the deep red plush carpet, my jaw dropping as gaze at

the dozens of photographs covering the wall. These must

all be my ancestors—my great-grandparents

my

grandfather

my dad

My heart stops.

There she is.

move forward slowly, my breath trapped in my

lungs, my eyes flicking from one photo to the next, the

same hazel eyes shining out from each one.

Trudie.

518

I’d only ever seen the one photo Rosie gave me—

had only imagined her at one age, in one setting—but here

she is as

child,

teenager,

young woman

grinning

and posing, beaming proudly at her graduation, laughing

happily at her wedding. And there she is on park swing,

glowing with pride as she cuddles the tiny dark-haired girl

in her arms.

That should have been me.

finger my own hair, the hair I’ve always hated, till

now. Now it’s our bond, my inheritance, the exact same

shade. Gingery-chestnut.

“Ginger nut?”

“What?” turn, startled.

Laura is holding out tin of cookies. She smiles. “I’m

afraid there’s not much choice—it’s ginger nuts or

chocolate digestives.”

“Oh—thanks.” smile, taking chocolate cookie.

“I rang Andrew, but

got one of those awful

messagey things,” she says, following my gaze to the wall.

“That’s lovely photo, isn’t it?” She beams, passing me

steaming cup and saucer. “Rosie wasn’t even two there,

but she was already right little minx—into everything—

you couldn’t take your eye off her for second! But then

she’d grin at you with those big green eyes and you’d

forgive her anything. Butter wouldn’t melt.”

smile uncertainly.

“And that’s her mother, Trudie. My own little girl,”

she says tenderly.

“She’s beautiful,” breathe.

519

“Yes.” Laura smiles. “She was.”

“What was she like?”

ask quietly, holding my

breath.

“She was beautiful.” She sighs. “Inside as well as out.

She was the kindest, most loving girl you could ever meet.

An amazing mother to Rosie.”

My heart aches. “Rosie said she’d died recently?”

“Yes.” Laura’s face clouds over. “She was very ill.

She had Huntington’s disease.” She glances at me. “Rosie

told you?” she asks slowly.

nod. “I’m so sorry. It must’ve been awful.”

“It was,” she says. “It’s

hideous disease. It was

horrible seeing her suffer, watching her slip away. And the

awful thing was we hadn’t even known she was at risk—

I’d never heard of Huntington’s before, and Charles …” She

nods at

photo of

handsome police officer. “My

husband, Charles, died before his time, so we never knew