The Traveller’s Daughter. Michelle Vernal

       Chapter 25

      

       Chapter 26

      

       Chapter 27

      

       Chapter 28

      

       Chapter 29

      

       Chapter 30

      

       Chapter 31

      

       Acknowledgements

      

       About the Author

      

       About HarperImpulse

      

       About the Publisher

      For my sister Rachel for being so brave

PART ONE

       Chapter 1

       The older the fiddle, the sweeter the tune - Irish Proverb

      Rosa’s Journal

       Kitty, if you are reading this, my darling girl, then we have come full circle. Oh, I’ve sat down so many times and picked up a pen sure that this time I will write my story down for you. The problem was that I could never find a place in which to start. The thought of writing down all those words, well it would overwhelm me. So then I would think perhaps it would be better if I just got on a train and came to see you instead.

       Yes, Rosa old girl, that’s what you should do, I’d tell myself. I’d sit you down with a nice, strong cup of tea and give it to you straight. Face to face before it was too late. But then I’d come back to what stopped me writing it all down in the first place. Where should I begin? I think perhaps, at last, I have realized that therein lies the answer, but I’m not ready, not just yet, and so I’ll digress.

       My past was my Pandora’s Box, and while I kept the lid firmly shut on it, I found that I could keep moving forward. Perhaps I shouldn’t have done so, but I had my reasons, or at least I thought I did. It’s strange the way we humans can twist and turn our actions until they fit inside that box just the way we want them to. I am learning though that this getting older is a funny business and not in a laughing sort of a way either. Its finiteness puts a different perspective on the things we’ve done, and the choices made when one finally stops and looks back at the complicated pattern they’ve weaved throughout life.

       I imagine that writing this and getting it off my chest will be cathartic for me. There’s a nice lady, Sandy something or other who, works at the hospice I will go to when it’s time, who told me she thought it was a grand idea. She makes a cup of tea the way it should be made, so I trust her judgment. Life is like a cup of tea; it’s all in how you make it.

       It was over tea and one of those chocolate biscuits – you know the ones you always loved as a child? – that I told her I wasn’t ready to let go. The time wasn’t right, not when I still had things sitting so heavy on my heart. She patted my hand and told me that some people find it easier to write down what needs to be said. It’s easier to be honest with the written word.

       She’s a woman of good sense, so that’s what I have decided to do because this time I shall just have to get on with it. I don’t have the luxury of procrastination any longer. Sandy’s a kind soul and a brave one too, volunteering the way she does at the hospice, and the next time I popped my head in the door to see her she had this book for me. She knows I love roses, so she chose the cover of it well. I think it makes it look a bit more special, like something you might want to keep hold of. She told me I had no excuses to leave anything left unsaid now. That’s another thing about Sandy; she doesn’t mince her words, and she tells you it like it is. I like that about her because what’s the point in someone dressing things up and saying, ‘sure, it will all be fine’ when you know full well it won’t be.

       Yes, she’s a fine woman, and I am glad she will be there holding my hand when my time comes. She’s promised me that, and I know you will feel it should have been you there with me. I hope when you’ve read all that I have to say though you’ll understand why I couldn’t do that to you. Know this though Kitty: while Sandy will have been of great comfort to me at the end, my thoughts will have been with you. Mothers hold their children’s hands for just a little while and their hearts forever.

       I think it will be the cleansing of a troubled soul that lost its faith a long time ago, this business of sitting here putting my story down on paper. I’m hoping that in doing so, I will finally be able to let go of the past that has never been very far behind me. For you though my lovely girl, hearing what I have to say might be similar to a child finding out they are adopted years after the event. It might seem like a betrayal of sorts, and perhaps, as I now wonder, you might think that it was an unnecessary secret to have kept from you. I couldn’t go back, though, and I knew if I told you where I came from, you would want us both to do just that.

       Chapter 2

       A nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse. – Irish Proverb

      Kitty

      “Oh, Mum, who were you?” Kitty Sorenson whispered out loud to the empty room as she stared at the Facebook message blinking back at her from her phone. Only a moment before she had been thinking that she would have to get around to changing her profile picture. The selfie had been posted, as all good selfies too often are, after a few wines one evening. She’d taken it last year before the proverbial shit had hit the fan. Her grin was huge. She had been happy that day; she thought with a pang conjuring up the carefree feeling of warming up to dance the night away.

      It felt like a lifetime ago now. If anyone had told her as she’d twirled to the music that night what lay ahead for her and Damien, she would have told them they were bonkers. Nor would she have believed that she would be sitting here at her mother’s house at 66 Edgewater Lane on this gloomy afternoon. She was waiting to hear from the Estate Agent handling the property’s sale, and the shadows were beginning to stretch long.

      The message had pinged its arrival and startled her from her thoughts. She had been wondering how Yasmin was getting on without her at the market. She had assumed the message would be from the agent, Mr Baintree because a quick glance at the time confirmed that the auction should be just about done and dusted by now. She had contacted the firm when her mother’s estate had been wound up. The oily proprietor, the one and the same Mr Baintree had rubbed his