Later, Ava had waited until Oliver had trudged up the creaking stairs to bed. Until the fire had cooled into glowing embers, and she could pad, barefoot, into the pantry and do the same thing she’d done as a little girl.
Grab a spoon, and a pot of something sweet, and sit until either the jar was finished, or her thoughts had quietened. Whichever came first.
She dipped the spoon into the jar of lemon curd – so sour it made her lips curl – and swallowed. Oliver was right – running from her problems hadn’t fixed them. In fact, it’d only sewn new threads into an already tangled web – and now she would have to unwind them all.
She set the pot down, drawing her notebook onto her lap instead. At the very top of a new page she wrote in squished, black letters:Things I had a hand in breaking, and must now repair.
And then she began.
1. Oliver
Above all, she would keep him safe. It wouldn’t make up for all that she’d left him to cope with, but it was a start – wasn’t it? He’d been tied to this house ever since she left – chained to their father – and perhaps now she was back he could claw a little time for himself. Forhisdreams.
2. Everything with Jem
She had spent many nights in Edinburgh trying to picture what seeing him again would be like, and not one of her imaginings had placed them at St John’s Market, a muddy potato in her hand, her brother’s scalding glare burning into the side of her face. In her mind, Jem had never worn the oddly pitying expression he’d worn then, and he certainly hadn’t said anything quite so cutting as:It wasn’t anything you did.You do know that, don’t you?
When he’d said that it had felt like … like a door that she had kept open – a crack, a sliver, just wide enough to allow a single thread of light, a golden streak of hope – as if that door had finally creaked shut. For that wasn’t the sort of thing a man who regretted his actions said, was it? Those were the words of a man who didn’t love her. Not in the way she’d wanted him to.
But hedidstill want her friendship, hers and her brother’s, and she wanted that, too – for they were tied together by more than just a shared childhood. When Jem’s father had passed away, they’d huddled in the now-quiet apothecary, curled beneath Mr Foster’s old desk like a litter of kittens, telling stories and talking nonsense until the sun had streaked the sky, and Jem’s expression had unfurled. Much later, when her own mother had died, they’d sat in the cold church hall, all of them dressed in black, and done it all over again. It had felt like the three of them against the world, against the odds, but always,alwaystogether.
And then Jem had proposed, and her happiness had been overwhelmed by the sheer weight of the relief – for it wasn’t just a wedding. Wasn’t just a marriage.
It was a way to keep them all together.
Now that had all broken apart, and she would have to see what she could do to fix it. Perhaps it would never be like ithad been before, but … anything would be better than what had happened at the market.
She took another spoonful of lemon curd before continuing.
3. Miss Fairchild, Mr & Mrs Green, Stanley, Tommy, and the rest of them – for leaving the theatre the way I did.
Although she had no idea how she would quite make up forthat. She supposed returning would be a start. At least she could try and explain herself. Explain that it had nothing to do withthem, and everything to do with her.
And then of course, there was the next one.
4. My art. My memory work.
Mr Carter’s words had opened a door in her mind she hadn’t known existed. For perhaps it would be different, doing it for herself? Perhaps it could mend whatever had fractured within her; and though she couldn’t silence that familiar worry – that she would falter – at least now she could quieten it.
The charcoal smudged a little as she moved her hand back and forth, the words spreading across the page. She hadn’t written ‘Pa’ yet. Or ‘what happened in Edinburgh’ but there would be time for that.
At least now, she had a path before her. Some way of piecing back together everything she’d shattered when she’d fled Liverpool three months ago.
‘Ava?’
Her father’s voice appeared behind her right shoulder and Ava yelped, almost dropping the full pot of lemon curd upon her notebook.
‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ he said, perching on the other end of the settee, the springs groaning loudly despite her father’s slim frame. ‘I thought you’d heard the door open.’
‘I didn’t,’ said Ava, snapping the notebook shut, ignoring the warm flush upon her cheeks.
‘This came for you today,’ said her father grumpily, reaching into the towelling of his robe and pulling a crumpled paper from it. ‘Some wretch stood outside the door and knockedincessantlyuntil I was forced up and out of bed to answer.’
Ava took the small square of paper hurriedly – for she wondered if it might be Mr Carter writing to her. And then she read: ‘You are cordially invited to the Mersey Widows’ and Widowers’ annual tombola,’ and the excitement drained from her. ‘Riveting prizes will be coupled with afternoon tea, and a chance to find comfort and company.’ She raised her eyebrows at her father. ‘Surely I would have had to have been married, and then bereaved, to join such a club?’
He snatched the paper back, a flush rising upon his cheeks. ‘Not that one,’ he said hurriedly, crumpling it into a ball. ‘It’s blackmail, I tell you. Mrs Moss is posting a new note through the door each day I do not reply.’
‘It’s afundraiser.’
