The Lake House

by Kate Morton

  She knew him at once.

  He’d been sitting on the floor the whole time and looked at her now with wide eyes. He had a mop of straight sandy hair that fell like an upturned pudding bowl and was wearing a white apron tied around his waist. It was too long for him and had been doubled over to fit.

  He was about nine years old. No, not about, he was nine years old. Nine years and two months, to be precise. He was slight but not thin, and his cheeks were full. He smiled openly at Eleanor, like someone who knew the world to be a good place.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “We haven’t much in the way of milk today, I’m afraid, but we’ve a few nice eggs just came in from a farm out Kent way.”

  Eleanor was light-headed. “Eggs,” she managed to say. “Eggs would be lovely.”

  “One or two?”

  “Two, please.”

  She took out her ration book and, as the boy turned to a basket on the shelf behind the counter and started wrapping the eggs in squares of old newspaper, she crept closer. She could feel her heart beating against her ribcage. If she just reached out her arm she’d be able to touch him.

  She folded her hands together firmly on the counter and noticed a book. It was scuffed and dog-eared and missing its dust jacket. It hadn’t been there when she entered the shop. The boy must have brought it with him from his hiding spot on the floor. “You like to read?”

  The boy shot a guilty glance over his shoulder; his cheeks were instantly pink. “My mum says I’m a natural.”

  My mum. Eleanor winced. “Does she?”

  He nodded, frowning slightly and with great attention to detail as he finished twisting the ends of his second egg bonbon. He brought them both to the counter and then tucked the book onto a shelf beneath. He glanced at Eleanor, saying solemnly, “I’m not actually supposed to read while I’m minding the shop.”

  “I used to be like that when I was your age.”

  “Did you grow out of it?”

  “Not really.”

  “I don’t think I will either. I’ve already read that one four times.”

  “Well then, you must know it almost by heart.”

  He smiled proud agreement. “It’s about a girl who lives in a big old house in the country and discovers a secret doorway to another world.”

  Eleanor steadied herself.

  “The girl lives in a place called Cornwall. Have you heard of it?”

  She nodded.

  “Have you been there?”

  “I have.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “The air smells like the ocean, and everything is very green. There are marvellous gardens filled with strange and wonderful plants you won’t see anywhere else in England.”

  “Yes,” he said, his eyes bright. “Yes, that’s just what I thought. My uncle told me so. He’s been there too, you see. He said there really are houses like the one in my book, with lakes and ducks and secret tunnels.”

  “I grew up in a place like that.”

  “Wow. You’re lucky. Uncle Ben—he’s fighting in the war right now—he’s the one who sent me this postcard.”

  Eleanor looked where the boy was pointing. A sepia photograph of an overgrown garden gate had been taped to the side of the cash register. White cursive writing swirled across the bottom right corner, wishing the recipient Magic Memories.

  “Do you believe in magic?” he asked earnestly.

  “I think so.”

  “Me too.”

  They smiled at one another, a moment of perfect accord, and Eleanor felt herself on the threshold of something she hadn’t foreseen and couldn’t properly describe. Possibility seemed to infuse the air between them.

  But then a swirl of noise and movement arrested both of their attention and a woman bustled in from the door at the back of the shop. She had dark curly hair and an animated face with full lips and bright eyes, the sort of indomitable spirit that filled a room and made Eleanor feel thin and flimsy.

  “What are you doing there, love?” She ruffled the boy’s hair and smiled at him with enormous love. She turned her attention to Eleanor. “Has Bertie here looked after you?”

  “He’s been very helpful.”

  “Not keeping you from getting on with things, I hope? My lad could talk the legs off an iron pot if I let him.”

  Bertie grinned and Eleanor could see it was a running joke between them.

  A pain seized her chest and she reached out to hold the counter. She was suddenly dizzy.

  “You all right there? You look a bit green.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “You sure? Bertie—go put the kettle on, love.”

  “No, really,” said Eleanor. “I should be going. I’ve a lot of calls left to make. Thank you for the eggs, Bertie. I’m going to enjoy them. I haven’t seen real ones in such a long time.”

  “Hard-boiled,” he said, “that’s the only way to have eggs.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” The bell above the door tinkled again as she opened it and Eleanor had a flash of memory, a day ten years before, when she’d pushed open the post office door and run into Ben.

  The boy called after her, “I’ll make you a cup of tea next time you come.”

  And Eleanor smiled back at him. “I’d like that very much,” she said. “Very much indeed.”

  Thirty-five

  London, 2004

  They met at the Natural History Museum, just as they always did on Eleanor’s anniversary. They didn’t hug, that wasn’t their way, but they linked arms, each shoring the other up a little as they did the rounds. Neither spoke; instead they walked together quietly, lost in their own private memories of Anthony and Loeanneth and all the things they’d learned, too late to help him but soon enough to bring a measure of resolution to their own lives.

  The others joined them afterwards for tea at the V&A. Even Bertie made the trip up from Cornwall. “I wouldn’t dream of missing it,” he’d said when Alice telephoned him with the invitation. “Besides, I was already planning to come to London that week. There’s a certain grand opening to attend after all . . .”

  He was holding a table already when Deborah and Alice arrived, and waved them over. He stood, smiling, embracing them each in turn. Strange, Alice thought, as Deborah patted his cheeks and laughed, the way their abhorrence of physical greetings didn’t extend to their little brother. It was as if, having missed so much time together, they felt a physical need to bridge the years. Or perhaps it was because they’d lost him when he was so very small that the love they felt demanded tactile expression, in the same way an adult cannot help but reach to hold a child. Whatever the case, they treasured him. It occurred to Alice how pleased Eleanor would be to know that they’d found each other again.

  Sadie came next, a handful of papers in her arms. She walked as quickly as always, head down as she tried to shuffle the sheets back into order. “Sorry,” she said, arriving at the table. “Tube was delayed. I’m late. Story of my life at the moment trying to get things ready in time for the opening. Hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long?”

  “Not at all,” said Deborah, smiling fondly. “We’ve only just arrived ourselves.”

  “And here’s Peter now,” said Bertie, nodding towards the entrance.

  Sadie handed the manuscript to Alice. “I’ve marked anything I could find, but there wasn’t a lot. Just a few procedural things. Oh, Alice—” she dropped her handbag and collapsed onto the spare seat—“it’s a good one. Very good. I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough.”

  Alice looked pleased but not entirely surprised. “I’m happy to say that number fifty-one proved rather more obliging than number fifty.”

  Peter arrived at the table, leaning to kiss Sadie on the cheek. She clutched his shirt and kissed him back. “How did you go?” she said. “Did you get it?” />
  “Right here.” He tapped his satchel.

  “How did you manage that? They told me it would be at least another week.”

  He smiled mysteriously. “I have my ways.”

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  “He does, and he’s my assistant,” said Alice, “so don’t even think about stealing him.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “Go on then,” said Bertie. “Don’t keep us all in suspense. Let’s have a look at it.”

  Peter took a flat rectangular parcel from his backpack and unwrapped the tissue paper. The metal gleamed silver when he held it up for them to see.

  Alice put on her glasses and leaned closer to read the engraving. “S. Sparrow, Private Investigator. Please ring doorbell for assistance.” She folded her glasses again and tucked them in their case. “Well,” she said, “it’s to the point and I like that. I don’t hold with cute business names. As the Sparrow Flies, Bird’s-Eye View . . .”

  “The Early Bird Catches the Worm,” said Peter.

  “Actually, I quite like that one,” said Bertie.

  “Alas, I can’t claim it,” said Peter. “That was one of Charlotte’s.”

  “Is she coming?”

  “Not today,” said Sadie. “But she said she’d try to make it to the opening of the agency on Saturday night.”

  “Well then,” said Bertie, with a smile of something like pride and satisfaction and deep contentment all wrapped into one. “What do you all think? Shall we skip tea just this once and have some sparkling wine instead? It seems to me we have an awful lot to celebrate.”

  Acknowledgements

  to follow

  Kate Morton grew up in the mountains of south-east Queensland and lives now with her husband and young sons in Brisbane. She has degrees in dramatic art and English literature, specializing in nineteenth-century tragedy and contemporary gothic novels.

  Kate has sold over nine million copies of her novels in 26 languages, across 38 countries. The Shifting Fog, published internationally as The House at Riverton, The Forgotten Garden, The Distant Hours and The Secret Keeper have all been number one bestsellers around the world. Each novel won the Australian Book Industry award for General Fiction Book of the Year.

  You can find more information about Kate Morton and her books at katemorton.com or facebook.com/KateMortonAuthor