Under the Golden Sun by Jenny Ashcroft

Author:Jenny Ashcroft
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

When she woke the next morning with a crashing hangover, Walter tugging at her arm, telling her that there were parrots on the windowsill and more kangaroos outside (he’d slept until past seven; maybe Vivian had heard Rose’s prayer), she’d forgotten that she’d fallen asleep wondering about Max at all. All she could think about was how she’d never touch gin again, and that there was no justice in the world if Esme wasn’t feeling as ill as her. (“There’s justice,” said Esme, when she appeared minutes later, grabbing the doorframe, her rollers still in, all at odd angles.) She couldn’t concentrate on anything beyond raising herself gingerly to sitting and begging Esme to be the one to go downstairs and brave Hannah, fetch them both tea.

“Not a chance,” said Esme, sinking into the room’s one chair. “I couldn’t sleep after I went to bed, I decided to go down and make the bread for her. She’s going to be ropable…”

By sheer brute determination, Rose forced herself from her bed, went down herself, and got through the rest of the morning that followed: trying not to heave while she boiled the kettle, enduring Hannah’s chagrin over the bread (“She didn’t make a bad fist of it,” Hannah said, hands on her hips, staring at the loaf Esme had left on the cooling rack, “but it’s the principle. She’s never done as she’s told…”), getting herself and Walter dressed, picking at a breakfast of sausages, then foolhardily venturing out with Walter for a walk while Esme, in her own world of pain, set to doing the workers’ wages—which Hannah had taken visible delight in reminding her were due that day.

“Go on, off you go,” Hannah said to Rose and Walter, batting them out of the kitchen. “I daresay the fresh air will do you good, I can’t have you under my feet all day.” She pushed Rose on. “You’re giving me a headache…”

The sun outside was blinding. It did Rose no good at all. And the air—which was certainly fresh, cooler again than the day before—made her shiver, even with a cardigan on. She wrapped her arms weakly around her body, squinting outward, still getting used to the rolling space, everywhere; the idea that Walter now owned half of all she saw.

“Come on,” he called, scampering ahead, enviably full of beans, past the chicken coops that stood behind the house, on in the direction of a low hut, that was apparently Bill’s station kitchen, and from which a strong stew-like smell was wafting. “Hurry.”

“In a second,” Rose said, swallowing on her bile. Walter had Rabbit with him, as usual. Peter Rabbit. Rose stared at its bouncing ears, recalling the way Lauren had looked at the toy too, back in the drawing room, when she and Walter had first arrived. Rose had thought she’d simply been avoiding looking at Walter’s face, but realized now she must have been completely floored, seeing the toy she’d made with such hope for her grandchild back in her house again.

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