I stare at her as the implications sink in. 'I honestly and truly know nothing about this.'

'I can get someone to come and show you the X-ray if you like. They know what they're talking about.' The regal grandmother seems a little menacing, suddenly. I want to run away. 'Martha, I can't help if you won't be open with me. I'm not suggesting you did anything yourself.'

I feel a guilty blush spreading up my throat. They think we've been hurting Finn for months. They think we broke his arm. Well, of course they do. He has a fracture, and I didn't even know. How could I not know? Bad mother. Bad mother.

'There has to be a mistake,' I insist desperately.

'I don't think there's a mistake.'

Kura lets the silence lengthen. She's not afraid of silence. That's what gives her power. The minutes tick by, and she waits like a cat at a mouse hole.

'Six months.' I try to remember every fall, every fight since we arrived here. In the life of a small boy there are many falls, and many fights. My memory is suddenly opaque, a sludge of panic.

Then it comes to me. Something so small, so silly. A bicycle wheel, stuck in a rut under a walnut tree. 'Hang on . . . Oh my G.o.d. I think I know. Maybe.'

Kura pulls out a notebook as I tell the story of Finn's tumble on New Year's Day. She scribbles as she listens. I don't think she believes a word. I don't blame her. 'So you never got him to a doctor?' she asks dubiously.

'Sorry . . . I know it sounds pretty slack, but honestly he seemed fine. In a few days he was back to normal.'

'Did he need a lot of a.n.a.lgesic? He must have been in pain.'

'Er . . .' I think back. 'I remember giving him Pamol a few times.'

She looks unconvinced.

'I can't believe we're the first parents to miss a fracture,' I argue helplessly. 'In fact I've heard of GPs making the same mistake.'

She closes her notebook. 'I'll discuss this with the team. It sets alarm bells ringing when an injured child isn't presented to a doctor.'

'Oh, marvellous. So in your book we're either abusive or we're negligent.'

'The two aren't mutually exclusive.'

'Look,' I say, 'I feel really awful about not spotting this fracture, but Finn's an adventurous five-year-old. If we carted him off to hospital every time he fell off his bike or out of a tree, we'd spend our lives in a queue!'

She just looks at me. I fear her; she is too perceptive.

'I'd like to go back to him now,' I say, standing up. I'm afraid I'm going to cry.

Kura doesn't move. 'Martha. I really am not the enemy, you know. Why won't you tell me who is?'

The hospital gift shop is closing for the evening, which doesn't matter much as I have no need of a helium balloon in the shape of a heart. There are armchairs nearby. Hiding in one, I call home.

Ira answers. No, Kit hasn't been in touch. Everything there is fine.

Beyond the empty cafe I find a door marked Chapel. The lights are on but the room's empty. There is a small altar in front of a stained-gla.s.s window, and a book in which people have scribbled messages or prayers. I suppose it was cathartic for them. A note promises that the chaplain will pray for those in the book.

I leaf through it. Each line tells its own tale. Everyone in the world has their story.

Please walk with Cynthia as she makes her lonely journey.

Dear Lord, comfort Ruth and family at their sad loss.

Thank you!!! Bryan going home today. You answered our prayers!

Don't take my little boy away from me.

Actually, I wrote that last one. Sorry. Hard not to be ba.n.a.l when life has fallen apart.

Twenty-five.

April. A blue-sky morning with a distinct nip in the air. As Pamela promised, autumn had brought yet another glorious palette of colours to our world.

The Easter holidays had come and gone. Kit was making school lunches while harrying the boys to get dressed. Sacha was still in her nightshirt. It had coffee spilled down the front, and she was riffling through her schoolbag. She walked to the laundry and looked in, then back to her bag. She seemed distracted.

'Lost something?' asked Kit.

'Just need a shirt.' She picked her barefoot way out to the washing line.

'Peaky,' remarked Kit, watching her tug a shirt from the line.

'She's run-down. You don't think it might be glandular fever?' I fretted. 'Or some kind of post-viral thing?'

'No, I don't. I think it's too much hard work, too many late nights and maybe too much dieting.'

Sacha reappeared and I dropped the subject. It wasn't the moment for serious discussion, anyway. Kit and the boys were going on a school outing for the day to the National Aquarium in Napier, followed by a pantomime. They'd be home after supper at McDonald's. Kit was condemned to spend all day with a posse of women and thirty small children before eating a Big Mac and fries. He looked astonishingly cheerful about it.

Sacha scratched her arm with furious fingers. 'This is driving me crazy. Frigging chickens have lice.'

'Maybe we should spray the smoko hut?' I suggested. 'It might be infested with something.' I glanced at my watch-the waterproof one I wore for work-and realised it had stopped. Cursing, I nipped upstairs and spent too long searching for the one Dad gave me. I looked in my jewellery box, which was where I'd last seen it; then I checked in my drawers.

Perhaps the patupaiarehe had been at it again. One day, I thought as I hurried back downstairs, I'd stumble upon the lair of that mischievous spirit. I'd find the precious watch, and Sacha's locket, and Kit's camera, and all those other things it had spirited away with wicked little fingers.

'Maybe we should have this house exorcised.' I wasn't quite joking. 'My gold watch has disappeared now.'

'Dad's coming on the bus,' chanted the boys, dancing around their sister like a Sioux war party circling a totem pole. 'Dad's a parent helper, Dad's a parent helper.'

'Stop it.' Sacha pressed her hands to her ears.

But they didn't stop. They cavorted and shrieked until Finn careered into the kitchen table.

'Frick's sake, will you ever shut up?' screamed Sacha. Shouldering her schoolbag, she pushed Charlie so hard that he sprawled on the floor. Then she banged out of the house.

The little boy lay where he'd fallen. 'Sacha was mean,' he whimpered.

'Women, eh?' Kit held out his arms. 'Come and have a cuddle, buddy.'

'Dad's going to sit next to me,' said Finn, unruffled by his sister's outburst.

'Me,' insisted Charlie through his tears.

'We'll go on the back seat, all three of us, and do moonies out of the big window,' said Kit.

'What's a moony?' asked Charlie. Finn, with an air of sophistication, cupped his hand and whispered in his brother's ear. I caught the giggled word b.u.ms. Charlie's tear-filled eyes grew large, and he covered his mouth with his fingers. 'We can't!'

I watched Sacha get into my car. I could have cried. 'What are we going to do about her?' I asked.

'Hard to believe these two cherubs will ever end up like that, don't you think?'

I smiled weakly. 'They'll be worse. And two at once.'

'Great gangly gargoyles, breaking out in acne,' groaned Kit, clapping a hand to his brow. 'Wearing their baseball caps back to front and their jeans halfway down their a.r.s.es.'

I kissed the three of them goodbye. Kit was looking romantic in a pale blue shirt and khaki shorts, and I felt a twinge of jealousy. 'The other mothers are going to have a lovely time,' I sighed.

I was giving Sacha a lift to school that day. We travelled in silence until we were on the main road.

'What was that about?' I asked. No reply. I turned the radio off. 'I'd appreciate an answer, Sacha.'

'They do my head in. Why do they always have to be such maniacs?'

'No, but you-'

'Leave it, will you?' Her voice was high and strained. 'I'm fine.'

'Sorry, I just-'

'I hate the way you always have to know everything that's going on in everybody's lives, all the time. Just keep out for once, for f.u.c.k's sake!'

She might as well have slapped my face. I drove mechanically for the next fifteen minutes, feeling utterly miserable. 'Sorry,' I said eventually. 'Whatever it was I did, or said, I'm sorry.'

'I'll tell you what you did. You cheated me of my real father. You made me come out here. You put Kit and the boys first. You always have, and you always will.'

She's got a point! crowed Mum.

'It was for all of us, Sacha, because we're a family! If we'd stayed in England we'd be living in a concrete box right now, and you'd have changed schools, and Kit would be . . . G.o.d knows. We'd probably be divorced.'

The anger seemed to have gone from her. 'I just want to go home.'

'Have you heard from Lydia lately?'

'It's hard with people in the opposite time zone-especially with no broadband. Anyway, we've nothing much to say any more.'

'You've got your new friends.'

'They're just . . . I just miss everyone so much.' She rubbed her eyes on her sleeve.

'Sorry, doll.'

I parked a little distance from the school gates and stroked her head. She sat, winding her hands around one another.

'Orchestra tonight?' I asked.

'Yes. I'll get the later bus. Mum . . .'

I was watching her hands. There was something disturbing about the way she was wringing them. It was as though she was compulsively washing, trying to erase some dirty spot, like Lady Macbeth. 'I'm all ears,' I said. The hand rubbing grew more frenzied. 'Sacha? Are you in some kind of trouble?'

'No.' She reached down for her bag. 'Just leave it. See you.'

Once she'd disappeared through the gates, I checked my work diary. I had a hectic schedule that day, starting with a staff meeting. Soon my car was headed towards Capeview, but my mind wasn't.

Just before the meeting began, Sacha sent a text. She must have been hiding her phone under her desk, because lessons started at eight thirty.

Soz mum luv you sooooo much x.x.x grumpy teen The sun burst through the clouds.

No probs doll love you too x.x.xXX Keith plumped himself down beside me as I was pressing send. 'Soppy text to Sacha,' I explained sheepishly. 'Actually, I'm in a state of panic.' I described the morning's events.

He looked sympathetic. 'That all sounds familiar. Parenthood's terrifying, isn't it?'

'You don't think she could be bulimic? Or . . .'

He waited, eyebrows raised. 'Or?'

'Or, well, bipolar or something?'

'Sacha?' Keith looked amused at the suggestion. 'I had a long chat with her at your party-a confident young woman, having a ball. She's doing nothing mine didn't do. What makes you think yours should be perfect? Many teenage girls-and boys too-have irrational tantrums. You know that! It's what they do, even if they haven't just emigrated. I suspect you're letting Sacha's mood swings rule your life.'

'Of course I am. My happiness is dependent upon hers. She's been my constant companion since I was twenty-one. In a way, we've grown up together.'

He patted the back of my hand. 'He that hath a wife and children hath given hostages to fortune. Francis Bacon, I think. Makes you wonder why so many of us do it, really.'

As I turned up our drive that evening, I had a kaleidoscope of half-formed thoughts in my head. I considered spraying the smoko hut for fleas, and decided to Google bedbugs when I had a moment. I worried about a client I'd just left, a teenage boy with spinal injuries. Finally I imagined Kit at McDonald's with thirty screaming five-year-olds. The image had me chuckling as I crunched into first gear for the steepest part of our hill.

I was still smiling crookedly as I parked under the walnut. It was fruiting now, and I gathered a couple of nuts from the ground. m.u.f.fin was lying in a patch of sunlight, but she came plodding over to greet me, crooning a h.e.l.lo. When I squatted down to give her a pat, her coat felt dusty and warm. The kitchen door wasn't shut; Kit must have left it open for the dog. I hoped the chickens hadn't got in and made a mess.

They hadn't. The room seemed just as I'd left it. m.u.f.fin turned round and round in her basket while I dropped my jacket over a chair. I'd picked up the post from our letterbox at the road gate. Junk mail, two bills and a postcard from Dad, who was on a walking holiday in the Lakes. I was engrossed in his handwriting as I reached for the kettle.

Windermere in winter is wondrously winsome, wantonly windy and wistfully wet.

My searching fingers didn't touch anything. Reluctantly, I lifted my gaze from the postcard and looked to see where the kettle had got to. It wasn't in its usual place by the bread bin. With my mind still on Dad's holiday, I searched the other surfaces.