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.She found Bryn’s ancestors and was surprised.She’d not realised his long association with the area.In the early 1900’s his great-grandmother married a young Irish boy.Sean O’Brien fathered thirteen children, all of whom survived, primarily due to the stubborn persistence of his wife in feeding their growing brood decent food and encouraging hard work with laughs for fun.Now for Mrs Potts, Nina muttered.Her father had been the misguided Reginald Winkham, but who was her mother? When had her parents died? What kind of people did others outside the home consider them to be?The cat yowled on the dot of 4am.Nina put the book down.She couldn’t have stayed awake all night! If she shut her eyes she might manage a couple of hours sleep.She’d just have to get by and be in bed early to catch up.But it wasn’t to be.Chapter 45c.AD 1287, ENGLAND: the royal household uses 677 pounds of sugar, 300 pounds of violet sugar, and 1900 pounds of rose sugar.Bryn was, as always, first through the door.“You’ll want to read this,” he said roughly, dropping a well-thumbed copy of An Hysterical History on the shop counter.“It’s fairly accurate – there’s a chapter about the school, which went from Year One to Year Twelve, Primer One to Form Six in the old days.Mrs Potts and Miss Clapham are in the class photos.Along with Mum.”Nina flicked straight to the school photos.She wouldn’t have recognised anyone in the picture, so she searched the names.Marilla Clapham.Nellie Winkham.Laney Blake was underlined – perhaps she was Bryn’s mother.They’d all been in the same Historical Art class.A small photograph, looking like a snapshot from a cheap camera took pride of place in the centre of the page.It was unfocused, but the words beneath were clear.Winners of the Historical Art Award – and there were listed Marilla Clapham, Nellie Winkham, and Laney Blake.A short paragraph accompanied the image.The trophy had been presented by one Henry Laud at an official ceremony at a large university.Nina’s eyes narrowed as she stared towards the images on the wall beneath Queen Victoria.This was the clue – the biggest clue she’d be likely to get.Henry Laud must be the mayor’s father or uncle or even an older brother.Bryn must know what had caused the team to shatter, presumably irreparably.The bell tinkled and Nina was brought back to the present with a jolt.Laud Mayor stood before her, drumming his fingers impatiently, picking up the weights for the scales, weighing them in his hands.He moved towards the wall where Queen Victoria hung, a quarter-pound weight still in his hand.He studied the pictures on the wall, fist clenching and unclenching, oblivious to Nina.It was the twisting of the metal lid on the jar of sugar sticks that drew his attention back to the present.In AD1274 Prince Henry had been given sticks of rose- and violet-flavoured sugar to make him well; perhaps a bag of sugar sticks would do something to soften Laud Mayor’s hardened heart.Laud Mayor looked at her outstretched hand and slammed the weight onto the bench.Jars jumped in protest, and the sherbets slid in slow motion to the floor.“You can not buy me,” he roared.“I don’t want your petty gifts.”Nina was shaking as she swept up the spilled sherbet and realigned the lolly jars.He had taken the sweets she’d proffered, probably unaware he’d even accepted the bag.It dawned on her as he threatened Queen Victoria with a closed fist (she was thankful he’d at least put down the weight) that the poor prince had not recovered from his illness, despite taking all his medicine.“Where is that woman?” he shouted, turning to Nina.“You’re hiding her, I know.You women are all the same.Conniving cows.”She wanted to snatch the bag of sweets from him except he was gone.At any rate, her mother would be appalled if she resorted to childlike behaviour and her father would have strapped her bottom.The ache in the bottom of her heart seemed to expand her chest so she could no longer breathe.The sting of tears pricked her eyes, but none fell.*Bryn exploded the bag of potato chips in his hands.There was always a chance that the bag would pop from the bottom.Then again, there were always more chips on the shelf.He’d seen Laud Mayor shake his fist through the window and he’d seen the small bag in his hand which could only have been sweets.Nina was obviously still heaping coals on the Mayor’s head.He wondered what he could do to heap burning coals but when he thought of the Mayor’s already long list of debt to the store, he couldn’t see what he could possibly give the Mayor that might make him see the villagers as real people.Perhaps it wasn’t about giving, Bryn thought.Perhaps it was more about doing.Jen would have known what to do.Jen, he supposed, would have invited Laud Mayor for dinner.He took a deep breath, took a great fistful of chips, crushed them and poured them into his mouth.He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, have Laud Mayor sit at his table and eat.Chapter 46c.AD 1300, EUROPE: fashionable kitchens serve thin, crisp white wafers made by pressing sugar and rosewater paste between hot iron tongs; EUROPE: doctors prescribe manu Christi, a medicinal hard candy made from sugar, flowers, rose water, and sometimes gold leaf or pearls.How glad Nina was that she’d chosen to take a day of rest each week.To get away from the wood and the fire and the well and the endless bowls of sugar and butter and milk and, and, and…She walked the length of the beach.When there was no more sand she clambered over sharp rocks embedded with cockles.The shells scraped her fingers, and she grazed a shin when she missed her step [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]