The Girl in the Scrapbook Carolyn Ruffles (read an ebook week txt) 📖

‘He won’t be shy for long with me. Would you like to see my studio, Alex? Would you like to help Caroline make a pot for Mummy?’

To Emily’s amazement, Alex nodded.

‘Right, why don’t you come with me? In fact, why don’t you all pop into the studio for a minute? I’ll need to wash up first if I’m looking after a little one.’

They followed her into a separate, small brick building with large windows.

‘Wow!’ Jennifer gasped, staring at the stunning collection of earthenware on display all along one side of the studio. ‘Is this all your work? It’s amazing.’

There were masses of pots, bowls, mugs and plates of all different shapes, sizes and colours. Some were delicately painted with flowers – poppies, roses, forget-me-nots, daffodils – and other pieces were plainer, chunkier, in striking colours and patterns.

‘How kind of you to say so!’ Caroline beamed as she lathered her hands and arms in a large sink. ‘It’s for sale if you want to buy some. No obligation, of course.’ She turned her attention to David. ‘Mum is desperate to see these lovely ladies but she won’t tell me why. She says they need to hear it first. I’ve managed to find the letter, thankfully, that she was going on about yesterday and she became much calmer when she had it by her. Still, I’d suggest that you don’t stay too long. We don’t want her overdoing it. She’s still very frail.’

David nodded. ‘I’ll keep an eye on her. Don’t worry.’

‘I know.’ Caroline looked at him affectionately. To Emily, she said, ‘Now, are you happy to leave this young man with me?’ She had produced a child-sized apron and was already expertly slipping it over his head. ‘I’ve got six grandchildren so I know what I’m doing! We’ll be fine, won’t we Alex?’

‘Are you sure, Alex?’ Emily asked anxiously.

Again, Alex nodded. ‘Make a pot,’ he said, his blue eyes serious. ‘Like that one.’ He pointed a chubby finger at the largest piece, a dark red vase standing a metre tall.

‘A man of ambition, I see.’ Caroline gently took him by the hand and led him over to her potter’s wheel. ‘Let’s see how big we can make it.’

With a final glance behind her and reassured that her son seemed perfectly happy, Emily followed David out of the studio and through the back door into the house. Her first impression was that this was a happy, comfortable family home. In the back porch, wellies in assorted sizes stood on a rack under a tumble of outdoor clothing, carelessly hung on pegs. They insisted on taking off their own shoes there before moving on to the kitchen, slightly cluttered, warm and decorated with children’s artwork, pinned by magnets to the fridge and secured on large pin boards on the walls. The smell of bacon made Emily’s stomach rumble.

David led them upstairs and knocked on one of the doors leading off the landing.

‘It’s me, Mum. I’ve brought some visitors to see you. Are you decent?’

They all heard the throaty chuckle followed by a rasping cough. He opened the door and peered around first before throwing it open and allowing the two women entrance.

‘I’m Emily.’ She crossed to the bed and gingerly squeezed the thin, gnarled hand of the silver haired woman lying there. ‘It’s so kind of you to agree to see us when you’re not well.’

The hand snatched at Emily’s fingers with surprising strength, pulling her closer. Brown eyes studied her face, absorbing every detail, before she finally nodded approval and released her hand. ‘Emily …’  Her voice quavered like leaves in a breeze. ‘Your eyes … your face … you have the look of Iris.’

Such simple words, but for Emily the world seemed to stop; everything was condensed into that single moment; it was the first time she truly believed she would find her family.

She was aware of her heart still beating, of Jennifer stepping forward and introducing herself, of David leaning over to kiss his mother’s shrunken cheek but she could barely breathe as she waited for what would happen next.

‘Come, sit by me.’ The old woman patted the duvet next to her and Emily did as she was bid, taking the wrinkled hand once more in hers.

‘My mother and Iris’ mother had been childhood friends,’ she began. Her voice was barely a whisper and Emily could hear the wheeziness, the breathlessness making every word a struggle. ‘Sybil and Norah. I never knew Norah. I was just a baby when she died.’

‘How did she die?’ Emily heard her own voice, equally breathless.

‘Giving birth to Iris, my Ma said. Women died in childbirth quite a lot in those days. Anyway, when my Ma married my father, she moved away from Chalkham but returned when he died. I was fifteen, I think. Iris was a year younger. I got to know her a little but we weren’t close friends then. About a year after that, her young man was killed in the war, like so many young men. Then she moved away with her father. At the time, I didn’t know why.’

She paused and closed her eyes. The only sound in the room was the rattle of her breathing.

‘I got married in 1950 and we lived in Norfolk, in a village called Heverton. We’d only been there for a few days when I was in the village shop and I heard this voice calling my name. It was Iris. She had moved to Heverton a year earlier when she married her husband, a lovely man called Charles Miller. He was a carpenter; my husband, Henry, was a builder so the two of them got on like a house on fire. We all became very good friends. Then we moved back to Chalkham in the mid-sixties. I was happy to come back but I did miss Iris. We kept in touch – letters, Christmas cards - and we did visit each other every now and then. Iris loved Willow Farm. Of course,