Page 23

He looks up at me. ‘Biryani,’ he says flatly.

I give a little laugh. ‘Biryani?’ He nods. ‘As in the curry? Is that what you could smell? A reminder of somewhere?’

He nods again, and I don’t ask any more. I put my hand on his shoulder and wheel him back into the supermarket and straight to the ready meals section, not stopping to talk to anyone who might try and speak to me.

‘Let’s see what we can find, shall we?’

We leave the supermarket with a selection of ready-made curries and reheatable snacks in plastic packaging. We pull out of the car park and onto the main road, passing the row of shops and Indian takeaway there, where there’s a young girl the same age as Willow, holding her mum’s hand. I see Willow through the rear-view mirror raise a hand and wave, and the young girl raises a hand, smiles and waves back.

I smile at Willow giving a small smile.

At dinner, though, it’s back to Willow being quiet.

‘Willow gave me quite a scare today,’ I’m telling Gareth as the curries ping from the microwave. ‘He went exploring, met a new friend!’

Gareth hands me a glass of wine and I begin serving up the curries.

‘Unusual choice for a nine-year-old. I’d have thought he’d want chicken nuggets or burgers from a big chain, with fries.’

‘We’ve tried all those,’ I say quietly.

We sit down. Willow leans in and smells the curry, then sits back. Gareth and I look at each other.

Gareth picks up his fork and tucks in.

‘Oh, this is lovely,’ he says, and then gives a little cough. ‘Bit spicy.’ He takes a big slug of wine. ‘Might be a bit too spicy for Willow,’ he says to me. ‘Children don’t usually . . .’

Willow picks up a piece of naan bread, scoops up the curry and takes a big mouthful. We both look on with concern. He chews.

‘It’s not quite right,’ he says, but does take another mouthful.

‘I did say I thought it was a poor choice,’ says Gareth.

‘I’ll find you something else,’ I say to Willow, feeling tired to my bones.

‘Not enough spice,’ he says, and we both look at him in surprise.

My phone rings. I look around for it in the usual confusion before finding it in my bag, exactly where it was earlier, and pull it out and answer it.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Gwen, it’s Yvette from the estate agent’s. Sorry to ring so late.’

‘Oh, hello, Yvette.’

‘But I’ve some news for you. Some very good news.’

I listen to what she has to say. When I turn around, Willow has left the table. Gareth looks expectantly at me.

‘They’ve had a firm offer on the farm,’ I say. ‘Asking price.’

‘Well, that’s good news,’ he says, impressed.

‘On one condition,’ I say quietly. ‘They want to be in by Christmas.’

And suddenly the dark October evening feels much chillier, reminding me that winter is on its way.

Chapter 11