A Finer End

Bram realized he was sweating and wiped a hand across his brow. One thing was certain—he must find a way to stop Winnie Catesby’s meddling before it destroyed them all.

The kitchen of the Dream Café smelled strongly of cabbage, but Faith didn’t mind. Her morning sickness seemed to have improved at last—and the food odors did help disguise the ever-present smell of damp that permeated the place.

The café was built right into the base of the Tor, and condensation coated the limestone walls with a slick sheen. The front room held tables; the rear was divided into a small shop on the left and the kitchen on the right, separated from the eating area by a serving bar. Not that they served much—the menu consisted of hot soup, tea (herbal or otherwise), and a vegetarian special of the day. Faith, who had barely boiled water at home, had become quite adept at concocting the soups and hot dishes, and this morning she would have everything ready by opening time. Humming as she put the final dusting of paprika on the day’s cauliflower bake, she imagined what her mum would say if she could see her handiwork. But the thought brought a stab of homesickness and a prickle of tears behind her eyelids.

It had been almost three months since that day in early April when she’d run away from home. She would never have believed she could miss her beastly brother and sister so much—or her parents. So many times she’d been tempted to go back, to invent a story they would accept—she’d say it had been a boy in her class … but, no, that wouldn’t be fair … a stranger, then, passing through on a pilgrimage to Avalon.…

But she had known instinctively that lies wouldn’t wash, that they’d demand the one thing she couldn’t give them—the truth. So she’d managed as best she could; begging friends to let her climb in their bedroom windows for a dry night’s sleep, then, when their hospitality wore out, she’d slept rough wherever she could find a spot, taking handouts from the local charities.

School seemed a distant universe, and sometimes she missed that, too, with an ache so fierce it surprised her. But things were better now, since she’d met Buddy and got the job at the café. She’d been leery at first, but the offer had turned out to be no more than the kindness it seemed. After a few weeks she’d begun volunteering to open and close the café. If her boss knew she spent the nights in the tiny upstairs room, he’d never let on. And if it spooked her sometimes—the must of damp oozing from the walls, the strange dreams that kept her restless and sweating … she’d known it was better than the alternative.

There was a toilet and washbasin at the top of the stairs, so she’d been able to keep herself clean, and to wash out her few items of clothing. But everything was getting tight now, stretching across her swelling belly.

She didn’t think about how she would manage when the baby came.

You just did one thing at a time, and right now the soup needed stirring. It was a rich mixture of cabbage, tomatoes, and caraway seed—Schii, Buddy said it was called, a recipe from his German grandmother who had emigrated to the Texas Hill Country. She tasted it, reached for the salt, then felt the oddest sensation in her abdomen. A flutter, almost a tickle—there it was again.

She was standing, spoon in one hand, salt in the other, mouth open in surprise, when the door opened and a woman came in. Dark, silver-streaked hair in a plait down her back, a worn face, dangly earrings, long Indian cotton skirt—Faith recognized her as a regular customer and a friend of Buddy’s, but she’d never really spoken to her.

“Are you all right?” the woman asked, coming up to the serving counter.

“I—I just felt something.… I think the baby moved.”

“First time?”

Faith nodded. Putting down salt and spoon, she pressed her palm carefully against her abdomen.

“Good. That’s normal, you know. Nothing to worry about. Before you know it she’ll be kicking you like a footballer.” The woman looked Faith over, assessing her with what seemed a professional eye. “Do you have a midwife?”

Faith shook her head.

“Have you been to a prenatal clinic?”

“No.” All those things meant registering with the social services, giving name, address, parents …

The woman studied her a moment longer. “Like that, is it? How old are you?”

“Seventeen. Old enough to be on my own.”

“Your parents know where you are?”

“Don’t want to know,” Faith replied, struggling to keep her voice steady. “And I don’t see why it’s any of your business.”

“How about making me a cup of tea?” the woman said, apparently unfazed by Faith’s rudeness. “I’m Garnet, by the way, I live up the hill.”

Faith complied, glad of the opportunity to collect herself, while Garnet stayed at the counter, watching her.

When Garnet had her tea, she said as if continuing a casual conversation, “Not very comfortable, sleeping in that old boxroom upstairs, I shouldn’t think. Not the best thing for a girl in your condition, either—all that damp.”