from The Lodge barn. There was a chair, a little table, a couple of rugs, a rusty portable barbeque, firelighters, matches, an old saucepan and a row of tins filled with teabags, sugar and digestive biscuits. The walls were festooned with cobwebs. In one corner there was an upturned crate draped with a fading chintz cushion cover. Carefully laid out on top of this makeshift counter sat a selection of Esme’s possessions. Sliding the chair across the floor, Esme sat before the crate and picked up a lace handkerchief with the initials
D. L. embroidered in one corner. She wiped her eyes, her tears joining the stains of her mother’s from long ago, marking the linen with crinkly little circles. There was no point in crying; it wouldn’t change anything. Her mother had really done it this time. Esme had forgiven her too often and to have forgotten her at Christmas was unforgivable. She would save up her pocket money and buy a new riding hat herself. Maybe she could take some money from her mother’s purse? It wouldn’t be like stealing because she should have spent the money already on her hat.
