Reading sample

The kettle had boiled too long; its thin whistle had turned into a weary hiss. Mary folded a cloth around the handle and lifted it clear of the iron trammel’s hook. Behind her, Sam’s chair creaked as he swung his legs beneath the table. She carried the kettle across and stopped beside him. His school shirt was buttoned crookedly, though he had been pleased enough with himself for dressing without being called.
‘Keep still while I pour.’
He caught his heels against the chair legs and held out his cup.
‘No, put it down.’
Sam grumbled. ‘Yes, Mother.’
Mary poured water into their cups, where the tea was already steeping, and carried the kettle back to the hearth. When she returned, she bent forward and turned Sam’s cup so that the chipped edge faced away from him. Her thumb lingered beside the missing piece before she withdrew her hand.
‘There. Mind, it’s hot.’
‘Is Father home today?’ he asked.
Mary sighed. ‘I don’t know, Sam.’
‘But he said he was coming.’
‘He is coming. He hoped to be home in June.’
‘It is June.’
‘Yes. But he couldn’t tell us which day.’
Sam considered this, his bread held halfway to his mouth. Beside him, Anna drew her cup towards her but did not drink.
‘What did he say?’ she asked. ‘In the letter.’

Mary glanced towards the mantel. The letter lay beside her tin candlestick, its creases soft from handling. Samuel had written in the middle of February. She had read it again that morning while the children slept, lingering over the passage she could recite word for word.
‘He wrote, “We expect to leave port within a few weeks. With a fair passage, I hope to be home with you in late June.”’
‘How long’s a passage?’ Sam asked.
Mary hesitated. ‘The voyage, probably three months, perhaps a little longer.’
‘From when he wrote?’
‘From when they sail.’
He looked towards the mantel, as though the letter might offer something more. Mary had searched it often enough herself. She had no word of Samuel’s departure and no way of knowing how far he had come.
‘We must give him time,’ she said.
Anna looked down into her tea. Mary drew a chair to the table and sat beside Sam. She would have to put his buttons right before he left, but for the moment she let him eat.
She had drawn her hair back tightly that morning, in the style her mother had shown her, and pinned it beneath a plain mob cap. A strand had worked loose beside her ear. She tucked it away, feeling for the pin, then smoothed the edge of the cap with her fingertips. She had dressed before waking the children, fastening her gown by the narrow window while there was barely light enough to see. Her apron already bore a faint smear of ash from tending the fire.
A draught stirred the curtain. Mary had made it soon after they moved in, using what cloth she could spare, and had been pleased by how much it changed the room. In daylight, with the beds made, and the hearth swept, the hut could look quite respectable. She reached behind her to tuck the curtain against the sill.
‘Can I have the last outsider, Mother?’
Anna’s hand was already on the bread.
‘You’ve had two slices already,’ she said.
Sam reached across the table and snatched it. Anna caught his wrist, but he had taken a bite before she could pull his hand back.
‘You little hellion.’
‘Anna, that’s enough,’ Mary said.
Anna released his wrist.
‘Well, he is. I bet he doesn’t know what that means.’
There was a smile at the corner of her daughter’s mouth. Mary broke the remaining piece on her own plate and passed it to her.
‘There. Just let him finish.’
Sam grinned through his mouthful. Anna wiped a smear of jam from his cheek with her thumb.
‘Stop. I can do that.’
‘Then do it.’