The toad was flung into the bushes and the girls cheered. Cackling, Jessica chased the short blonde girl, trying to rub her hands on her face.

  After a minute, Cherub pulled herself upright and turned to Filly. ‘Do you ever think,’ she started slowly, ‘about why they left us?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Our mothers,’ said Cherub.

  Filly’s eyes were brown and wide. She hesitated and then replied, ‘I don’t think they wanted to leave us, Cherub.’

  The other girl was confused. ‘What’d you mean?’ She tucked Rosie against her chest.

  Filly shrugged, still holding her knees. ‘I just don’t think they did.’

  Cherub nudged her friend. ‘Why?’

  Filly shrugged again. ‘I saw her once,’ she eventually said. ‘Well, I think I did.’ She turned her head away and looked at the ground. The mud squelched between her toes.

  Cherub shuffled closer and whispered. ‘How’d you know it was her?’

  Filly dropped her knees and pointed to her face. ‘She had this,’ she said, poking the veiny red blemish that bloomed across her cheek. Similarly mottled patches patterned the rest of her face. ‘She saw me,’ she continued quietly, ‘for a second.’

  Her companion was captivated and drew closer still. ‘What’d she do?’ she whispered, their conversation now tiptoeing into contraband.

  ‘Screamed,’ Filly said plainly. ‘Then I couldn’t see her no more.’

  Cherub nodded with understanding. Their view of the world was limited.

  If it had been within her, Cherub would have pressed Filly more, but the thought never occurred to her. Thin brown hair and a little pudgy around the middle, Cherub knew — in a rough and roundabout sort of way — that she wasn’t anything special. She didn’t understand the fancy squiggles in Filly’s books and she couldn’t copy the sound of someone passing wind like Jessica. Her chest was the only flat part of her body and she knew the other girls could hear her crying when they were supposed to be sleeping. Rosie was just a hairbrush, Cherub knew that, deep down, but that simple object was the only thing she had ever had that made her different from the others.

  Stretching her legs out in front of her, Filly told Cherub about a new story she had found.

  ‘I thought you knew them all,’ Cherub said.

  Filly smiled. ‘Me too. This one was down the back of the shelves. Must’ve fallen a long time ago.’

  Goldilocks and the Three Bears was its name. The book even had pictures, although someone had ripped out the last two pages. No matter, Filly told Cherub, she had designed her own ending.

  ‘The bears kept her,’ Filly explained. ‘Then some other girls came and they all lived together in the bears’ house. Baby Bear shared his porridge with them and they helped fix the chair Goldilocks broke.’

  All the books Filly found were old and defective. Once well-thumbed, no one had touched them in a long time. Only Filly knew how to extract their stories. Well, her and Nanny, but she hadn’t told them stories for a long time. They like the telly box better anyhow, Cherub thought, imagining the girls gathered around it as they did each evening.

  ‘We could ask Nanny to get more stories,’ Cherub suggested, fiddling with Rosie’s green ribbon.

  Filly shook her head and said, ‘She wouldn’t.’

  Cherub pulled a face. ‘She got Rosie.’

  ‘That was ages ago,’ the other girl replied. ‘You know how she is now.’

  Pinks, oranges and purples blossomed across the sky, signalling to the girls that it would soon be time to go inside. Looking like a spectre in her white smock, Nanny fussed and pestered at the door as the girls began to trickle in. When she saw Cherub, she shook her head.

  ‘Look at you,’ the white-haired woman tutted, pulling at Cherub’s mud-stained dress. ‘That was clean on this morning.’

  Red-faced, Cherub apologised and said she would change. Hurrying to her bed, she ripped the dress off over her head and stuffed it through the little door in the wall that ate all their dirty clothes. A fresh dress, pristine and white, was waiting for her behind a second door.

  Filly was standing by their beds, in her arms the book about the three bears. Sitting together on Cherub’s bed, the girls poured over its pages, studying its vibrant illustrations, imagining how the story was supposed to end. Across the other side of the room, Jessica and the others gathered around the television, having mounded blankets and pillows on the floor so as to construct a giant, spongey platform to lounge around on and gossip. Nanny sat in her chair watching on, helping the smaller ones to brush their hair for bed.

  An outsider looking in could be mistaken for thinking the girls were having a jolly time. A summer camp or sleepover, days filled with friendship, laughter and television. They would, however, have been mistaken. There was no home to go to at the end of the holiday, for this was their home. Rows of metal-framed beds and identical white smocks, a red-eyed camera in each corner, all on endless repeat, one day indistinguishable from the next, everything always perfectly arranged, perfectly the same, from the moment they were born.

  Sixteen

  Last night had been exceptionally windy. It had drizzled all day, until the fields were saturated with grey and the trees shivered every shade of brown, from almost white to almost black. By the time the night had rolled in, cloudless and cold and darker than death, the wind had taken up residence in the gaps between branches and inside the damp nooks of the homestead’s old stone walls. Trees filled with brown, dead leaves were snatched from the ground and left to rot by the force that had created them. In the morning, a squirrel weaved through their splintered graveyard, scratching the earth, her sylvan home obliterated.

  A light rain pattered on the roof of the farm buggy and dribbled down the windscreen. Robert’s jacket was buttoned up to his chin. His fingers seemed to creak as he gripped the steering wheel and his nose felt red. Despite the discomfort of the cold, the winter air made everything smell fresh and he savoured its crisp purity.

  He had risen before the Sun. The wood pellet boiler that heated B and C Buildings had failed last winter and Robert was haunted by the fear of it failing again. Against the dark, he had tightened the pipes and seals and checked that the fire was burning. Breakfast had been eaten at his desk in C Building — a leftover sandwich whisked from the fridge, wrapped in a damp piece of kitchen towel.

  ‘I am too blessed to be stressed,’ he muttered to himself as he eased his foot off the pedal and turned to avoid a large puddle in the road.

  Robert hadn’t seen Mary since her birthday and Alexander had returned to university only a couple of days after she left — a decision that had not been made lightly but was inevitable all the same. Robert had said nothing to him that morning as they ate breakfast together at the kitchen table. Sophie had boiled him two eggs, but he hadn’t managed to peel the shell of either. After shaking his hand at the front door, he had watched his son climb into his old red car and leave, driving, as he always seemed to be, against the tide. Holding Sophie on the doorstep, Robert had wished Alexander would hurry up and become a confident and capable man, and simultaneously hated how he was no longer his little boy.

  As busy as he was on the homestead — Sophie his only aide, his father too antiquated and Frank too unreliable — Robert was counting down the days until Alexander came home for Christmas. Mary had been due to return the previous weekend but had cancelled her train at the last minute. She had sent Robert a text message five minutes after he had arrived at the train station to pick her up. He suspected that something was blossoming between Alexander and Mary, although he was not quite sure if blossoming was the correct word to describe it. Images of rose thorns and beehives filled his head. It’s never so sweet without the sting. He chuckled and pulled up alongside the house.

  Sophie was waiting for him in the sitting room.

  ‘The boiler?’ she asked, steam rising from the coffee cup cradled in her hands. Robert peeled off his gloves and sat down on the sofa.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Just me.’

  She sighed and touched his knee. ‘You worry too much.’

  Leaning back against the sofa, Robert ran his fingers through his hair. Sophie took a sip from her cup and asked if he had eaten breakfast. He yawned and she told him the girls were upstairs in bed, then went to the kitchen to bring him some coffee. When Sophie returned, cup in hand, Robert was gone and the door to the study ajar.

  The room was cocooned in dark oak panelling. Hand-carved linenfold panels edged the bookcase that stretched the width of the far wall and an impressive ribbed ceiling drew the roof down. The lighting was low, the heavy ruched curtains still drawn over the window. In the centre of the room, facing the door, a desk of waxed mahogany stood scattered with papers.

  ‘I was looking through them yesterday evening,’ Sophie said, placing the coffee on a coaster on the desk. Her husband looked up from the files and thanked her.

  ‘I brought yours in,’ he said, nodding to the end table by the door. She took the cup and perched on the desk beside him. Still in her nightclothes, she pulled her dressing gown more tightly around herself as she sat.

  Robert handed Sophie a piece of paper. ‘You don’t think this one’s too young?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said as she scanned the page. ‘Then again, it might make him more malleable.’

  Robert sniffed, the cold still in him. ‘Or, it might do the opposite,’ he said. ‘You can never truly know their temperament until it’s too late.’

  ‘It’s never too late, dear.’ Sophie handed the paper back. ‘Especially with a young one. The cost of a miscalculation would not be so great.’

  Robert considered and nodded. ‘You’re right. But we shouldn’t do anything until Alex is back — it will be good for him to be a part of this.’

  ‘I agree.’

  Robert closed his eyes and massaged his temples. Sophie placed her cup down and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Have you spoken with your father about it?’ she asked.

  ‘He knows it’s time, yes,’ Robert replied, eyes still shut, ‘but he hasn’t said all that much. I sense he’s waiting for me to make a mistake.’

  Sophie’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s the most difficult task to undertake. Surely, even he’s not so cruel?’

  When he opened his eyes, the first thing Robert saw was concern. He took his wife’s hand and rubbed his thumb across her knuckles.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ she said. ‘This competition between you and him — it’s dangerous.’

  Robert raised an eyebrow. ‘I would hardly call it that. Besides, competition suggests we have both chosen to play the game, and you know I never have.’

  Sophie’s eyes softened. ‘I know, dear,’ she said. ‘But it’s dangerous all the same. You helped him when it was time, it’s only fair he returns the favour.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Robert grinned, ‘but that’s the issue — he considers having allowed me to help him favour enough.’ He paused, then changed his tone so as to mimic his father, ‘Weren't you paying attention, my boy!’

  Readjusting herself on the desk, Sophie laughed and touched her husband’s cheek. ‘We’ll manage,’ she soothed. ‘Providing you don’t make yourself ill with worry, we’ll manage.’

  ‘A wrong decision and it will jeopardise the success of everything—’

  ‘I told you,’ Sophie interrupted, ‘the cost would not be so great. Everything will be alright.’

  Robert laughed and tapped the back of her hand. ‘Now you’re talking to me as if I’m one of them!’

  ‘Well, stress is never a good thing — for us or them,’ she giggled and pinched his cheek. Robert pulled her hand to his mouth. Her skin was soft against his lips.

  ‘You’ve been baking,’ he smiled, kissing her hand. ‘I can smell the sugar on your fingers.’

  Sophie laughed and pulled her hand away. ‘Guinevere requested biscuits.’

  ‘I bet she did!’

  Robert imagined his daughters asleep upstairs, their breath sweet against their pillows as they chased rabbits and rainbows in their dreams. I am blessed. He breathed deeply and felt the stress that had been coursing through his veins dissolve to nothing.

  Unfolding her legs and sliding off the desk, Sophie moved to stand next to him. He offered her the chair but she shook her head.

  ‘This one.’ She pointed to one of the pieces of paper on the desk. ‘This is the one.’

  Robert moved it in front of him and pushed the other papers to the side. Sophie’s finger traced the top few lines on the page.

  ‘In many ways, he is ideal. And plus—’ she leant forward on the desk, ‘I’ve met him.’

  Robert stopped reading and turned to face her. ‘You have?’

  Sophie smiled, her top lip pulled up and revealing her teeth. She nodded.

  ‘How so?’ Robert’s eyes were quizzical. ‘When?’

  ‘He delivers to the shelter,’ she explained. ‘A few months ago he was taken up as an apprentice by the company who handles the laundry.’ As she straightened up, the collar of her dressing gown loosened and exposed the porcelain skin of her décolletage.

  ‘And so you have spoken with him?’

  She nodded. ‘On occasion. He helps the driver to carry the baskets and bags and whatnot.’

  ‘Why did you not say before?’

  She shrugged. ‘I wasn’t sure,’ she said. ‘Now, all options considered, I believe he’s the correct choice.’

  Robert looked again at the paper. ‘Clifford,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit old-fashioned, isn’t it?’

  ‘He lives with his grandmother,’ Sophie said and pointed to a paragraph further down the page. ‘Father, deceased. Mother, goodness knows where. I think he’s been with the grandmother since he was an infant. If I had to say, she was probably the one who named him.’

  Eyes oscillating from one side of the page to the other, Robert nodded. ‘And would she pose a problem?’

  ‘A carer comes by the house three times a week. Given the rate of decline, I imagine she’ll be in a home before too long.’

  ‘Anybody else?’ Robert asked.

  Sophie shook her head. ‘Not that I can tell.’

  Robert bit his lip and turned to thought. It would be easy. Or at least, easier than most. After a minute, he pushed the paper away and turned in his chair to face Sophie. ‘Well, my darling,’ he said as he reached for her hand. ‘I — as in all matters — trust your judgement implicitly.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear.’

  ‘And you can no doubt secure a sample?’

  ‘I think,’ she said, a strand of hair falling across her eye, ‘I can manage that the next time I’m at the shelter.’

  Robert raised her hand to his lips. ‘Monday, then.’ He kissed her. ‘And then we’ll know soon enough.’

  As Sophie nodded, footsteps rattled the ceiling above them. Thunderous movement came down the stairs.

  ‘The girls are up,’ Sophie said and they both laughed. ‘I’ll get started on their breakfast.’ Robert dropped her hand and rose from the chair, following her from the study. She turned as she walked and said, ‘I can make you something else if you’re hungry.’

  Robert glanced down at his watch. The hands signalled quarter to eight. ‘Thank you, my darling, but no,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to put them on to be milked.’

  ‘Perhaps when you get back, then,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll put the biscuits in the oven — we can have those.’

  ‘Warm biscuits and a glass of fresh milk. It’s a date,’ he grinned and kissed his wife one more time before they parted, she for the kitchen and he for the front door.

  Robert could hear the girls talking in the kitchen as he pulled on his boots. His gloves were still damp as he dragged them back over his fingers. Rain had somehow managed to seep inside rendering them redundant. Leaving them tucked over the radiator to dry, he checked his pocket for the key to the farm buggy before opening the door. As Robert pulled the front door closed, the last thing he heard was the sound of Aurélie laughing.

  I am blessed

  And, in more ways than one, he was.

  Seventeen

  There was always some tussling. Under pressure from the rear to keep moving, the line had buckled in the middle.

  Robert latched the backing gate and moved to the front of the herd. The lead fresher had stopped. Her nostrils were flared and her knees locked. From the other side of the fence, Robert softened his expression and attempted to soothe her. All herds developed a social hierarchy: freshers followed their herd mates, and so, when the more dominant members of the group stopped, the whole system came to a halt. Gently, Robert encouraged her to move. When she did not, he reached for his prod. Slipping its length between the bars of the fence, he contacted the stalled fresher’s side. The voltage inspired her to move. A short yelp and her knees loosened. The herd was allowed to move ahead.

  They settled into their stalls without fuss. Robert began with the newest and worked his way around to the more experienced members of the group. Before he had entered the parlour, he had, as he always did, turned on the speakers. The third of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons violin concerti, Autumn, played as he rinsed the bucket out for the seventh time.

  The solution was warm water and soap. The suds calmed the experienced fresher as Robert drew the cloth across her teats. Winter trembled out of the speakers and Robert started to hum.

  After she was washed and her milk had let down, he cupped her right breast and squeezed the area around the nipple. Stimulating three full squirts from the teat, he let the creamy liquid dribble to the floor, then moved to the other breast and repeated the process. Any unsavoury residue or puss now cleared from the teat, Robert guided the silicone cups over one breast at a time. After easing the nipples into the middle of the funnel, he switched on the machine and watched as fresh milk flowed.

  Master of his universe, he moved to the next, and the next, and the next, until all residents of the parlour, seated in their individual stalls, were being milked by the machines in perfect harmony. Robert took his seat, the stalls curved toward him in a crescent, and rapped his fingers against his knee in time with the music.