Her Own Rules. Barbara Taylor Bradford

stone that floats.

      Crystal snowflakes,

      Dew from flowers,

      Lamb’s tail shakes,

      The clock’s hours.

      But—surprise!

      Not needle eyes.

      Those he does not sell at all,

      At his most miraculous stall.

      Kate smiled at her daughter when she finished, loving her so much. Yet again she smoothed the tumbling hair away from Mari’s face and kissed the tip of her nose.

      Mari said, “It’s my best favorite, Mam.”

      “Mmmmm, I know it is, and you’ve had a lot of your favorite things today, little girl. But now it’s time for you to go to sleep. It’s getting late, so come on, snuggle down in bed…have you said your prayers?”

      The child shook her head.

      “You must always remember to say them, Mari. I do. Every night. And I have since I was small as you are now.”

      Mari clasped her hands together and closed her eyes.

      Carefully she said: “Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, bless this bed that I lay on. Four corners to my bed, four angels round my head. One to watch and one to pray and two to keep me safe all day. May the grace of Our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with us all now and forevermore. Amen. God bless Mam and keep her safe. God bless me and keep me safe. And make me a good girl.”

      Opening her eyes, Mari looked at Kate intently. “I am a good girl, aren’t I, Mam?”

      “Of course you are, darling,” Kate answered. “The best girl I know. My girl.” Leaning forward, Kate put her arms around her small daughter and hugged her close.

      Mari’s arms went around Kate’s neck and the two of them clung together. But after a moment or two of this intimacy and closeness, Kate released her grip and settled Mari down against the pillows.

      Bending over the child, she kissed her cheek and murmured, “God bless. Sweet dreams. I love you, Mari.”

      “I love you, Mam.”

      Wide rafts of sunlight slanted through the window, filling the small bedroom with radiance. The constant sunshine flooding across Mari’s face awakened her. Opening her eyes, blinking and adjusting herself to the morning light, she sat up.

      Mari had recently learned to tell the time, and so she glanced over at the clock on the bedside stand. It was nearly nine. This surprised the child; her mother was usually up and about long before this time every morning, calling her to come down for breakfast well before eight o’clock.

      Slipping out of bed, thinking that her mother had overslept, Mari trotted across the upstairs hall to her mother’s bedroom. The bed was empty. Holding on to the banister, the way she had been taught, she went down the stairs carefully.

      Much to Mari’s further surprise, her mother was nowhere to be seen in the kitchen either. At least, not at first glance. But as she peered around the room, she suddenly saw her mother on the floor near the stove.

      “Mam! Mam!” she shouted, ran around the table, and came to a standstill in front of her mother. Kate was lying in a crumpled heap; her eyes were closed and her face was deathly white.

      Mari saw that there was blood on her mother’s nightgown, and she was so frightened she could not move for a moment. Then she hunkered down and took hold of her mother’s hand. It was cold. Cold as ice.

      “Mam, Mam,” she wailed in a tremulous voice, the fear intensifying. “What’s the matter, Mam?”

      Kate did not answer; she simply lay there.

      Mari touched her cheek. It was as cold as her hand.

      The child remained with her mother for a few minutes, patting her hand, touching her face, endeavoring to rouse her, but to no avail. Tears welled in Mari’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks. A mixture of panic and worry assailed her; she did not know what to do.

      Eventually it came to her. She remembered what her mother had always told her: “If there’s ever anything wrong, an emergency, and I’m not here, go and find Constable O’Shea. He’ll know what’s to be done. He’ll help you.”

      Reluctant though she was to leave her mother, Mari now realized that this was exactly what she must do. She must go to the police box on the main road, where Constable O’Shea could be found when he was on his beat.

      Letting go of her mother’s hand, Mari headed upstairs. She went to the bathroom, washed her face and hands, cleaned her teeth, and got dressed in the cotton shorts and top she had worn the day before. After buckling on her sandals, she returned to the kitchen.

      Mari stood over Kate, staring down at her for a moment or two, her alarm and concern flaring up in her more than ever. And then, turning on her heel, decisively, she hurried outside into the sunny morning air.

      Mari raced down the garden path and out onto the tree-lined lane, her feet flying as she ran all the way to the main road. It was there that the police box was located. Painted dark blue and large enough to accommodate two policemen if necessary, the box was a great convenience for the bobby on the beat. Fitted out with a telephone, running water, and a gas burner, it was there that a policeman could make a cup of tea, eat a sandwich, write up a report, and phone the main police station when he had to report in or request help. These police boxes were strategically placed in cities and towns all over England, and were indispensable to the bobbies on the beat, especially when they were on night duty and when the weather was bad.

      By the time Mari reached the police box she was panting and out of breath. But much to her relief Constable O’Shea was there. He’ll help me, I know he will, she thought as she came to a stop in front of him.

      The policeman was standing in the doorway of the box, smoking a cigarette. He threw it down and stubbed his toe on it when he saw Mari.

      Taking a closer look at the panting child, Patrick O’Shea immediately detected the fear in her eyes and saw that she was in a state of great agitation. Recognizing at once that something was terribly wrong, he bent over her, took hold of her hand, and looked into her small, tear-stained face. “What’s the matter, Mari love?” he asked gently.

      “It’s me mam,” Mari cried, her voice rising shrilly. “She’s lying on the kitchen floor. I can’t make her wake up.” Mari began to cry even though she was trying hard to be brave. “There’s blood. On her nightgown.”

      Constable O’Shea had known Mari all of her young life, and he was well aware that she was a good little girl, well brought up and certainly not one for playing tricks or prone to exaggeration. And in any case her spiraling anxiety was enough to convince him that something had gone wrong at Hawthorne Cottage.

      “Just give me a minute, Mari,” he said, stepping inside the police box. “Then we’ll go home and see what’s to be done.” He phoned the police station, asked for an ambulance to be sent to Hawthorne Cottage at once, closed the door, and locked it behind him.

      Reaching down, he swung the child up into his arms, making soothing noises and hushing sounds as he did so.

      “Now then, love, let’s be on our way back to your house to see how your mam is, and I’m sure we can soon put everything right.”

      “But she’s dead,” Mari sobbed. “Me mam’s dead.”

      PART ONE

      TIME PRESENT

       CHAPTER ONE

      Meredith Stratton stood at the large plate-glass window in her private office which looked downtown, marveling at the gleaming spires rising up in front of her. The panoramic