Chapter Thirty-Three
The kitchen of Cliffside House was quiet, save for the rhythmic, comforting click of Lego bricks snapping together on the rug. The heavy, panicked tension that had filled the room when Ollie screamed had begun to dissipate, replaced by the calm, unflappable rhythm Lydia brought with her.
She sat on the edge of the low footstool, her green cardigan sleeves rolled back. She had spent the first twenty minutes simply breathing with the children, her voice low and unhurried as she answered their looping questions about bones, doctors, and plaster casts.
“My friend Rob Carter has blue hearing aids,” Jake informed her, his little fingers meticulously trying to attach a black rubber wheel to a yellow plastic axle. “Do they give Ollie a blue arm?”
“They might do,” Lydia said, helping him fit the wheel onto the axle. “Sometimes you get to choose the colour. When my brother Mark broke his wrist when we were little, he chose a bright green one so he could pretend he was a superhero.”
Jake nodded, thoroughly satisfied with this medical logic, and went back to rolling his newly built chassis across the pine floorboards.
Sophie sat a little further back on the sofa, her knees tucked to her chest, her fingers twisting the edge of her skirt. She was watching Lydia with that careful, observing intensity that usually signalled an approaching wave of worry.
“Will it hurt when they fix it?” Sophie asked, her voice very small.
Lydia moved from the footstool to sit beside her on the sofa, leaving enough space not to crowd her.
“It hurts now because the bone is broken,” she said gently.
“The doctors will give him medicine to help with the pain. If they need to straighten his arm, they’ll use special gas to help him stay calm, then wrap it in plaster so it can mend. ”
Sophie considered this seriously. She looked toward the kitchen window, where the late afternoon sun cast long, pale squares of light across the table, then back at Lydia.
“You stayed,” she murmured quietly.
Lydia’s heart gave a soft, unexpected tug. “Of course I stayed, sweetheart. Your dad needed to look after Ollie, and I wanted to make sure you three were looked after too.”
Sophie slid her feet to the floor and dropped her shoulders. With a slow, careful movement, she reached into her pocket and pressed a shiny silver star sticker onto Lydia’s green cardigan.
“That’s for helping,” she whispered.
Lydia felt a sudden lump form in her throat. She looked at the shiny star, then up at the doorway where Mia was standing.
Mia had been quiet for most of the afternoon, floating around the edges of the room with that observant, protective steadiness she had carried like a shield since they moved to Sandy Lane.
But as she watched her little sister relax beside Lydia, some of the tension around her jaw eased.
The defensive wall she had built after the housewarming no longer seemed quite so necessary.
Lydia wasn’t an intrusion; she was simply Lydia.
Mia walked into the kitchen, carrying a fresh plate of sliced apples and biscuits she had quietly prepared without being asked. She set the plate on the middle of the table, then sat down opposite Lydia.
“Thank you, Lydia,” Mia said, her voice soft but genuine. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Ethan says you’re brilliant at organising the Carnival. I think he’s right.”
Lydia smiled, a deep, steadying warmth settling in her chest. “Ethan is a very sensible helper, Mia. You all are. You’ve been brilliant today. Would anyone like a drink to go with the snack?”
Her phone buzzed against the wooden table.
Ollie is being seen now. The doctors need to straighten the bone using gas and air. He’s being very brave. Simon’s mum has offered to have Ethan overnight, and I’ve agreed, so you won’t need to wait up for him. It may be quite late before we get back. I’m sorry to leave you with all this.
Lydia tucked her phone into her pocket and glanced at the clock. It was nearly six. A simple supper seemed best after the shock of the afternoon, so she decided on cheese on toast.
Mia arranged the bread on the tray while Sophie laid four colourful plates on the table.
Lydia spread the grated cheese from corner to corner and slid the slices carefully beneath the grill.
The familiar rhythm steadied her — not practised efficiency, but something gentler, shaped by the afternoon’s adrenaline and the children’s need for reassurance.
They ate quietly, the girls gradually relaxing as Jake began narrating an elaborate story about his toy car’s heroic rescue mission. Afterwards, Lydia guided them upstairs, helping Sophie choose pyjamas and reminding Jake to brush his teeth.
At the landing, Mia paused.
“Ethan says you’re brilliant at organising the Carnival,” she said again, her voice low. “I think he’s right.”
Lydia smiled. “Thank you.”
For once, Mia looked almost unguarded as she met Lydia’s eyes.
Lydia watched Mia walk along the landing to her room. A moment later, the bedroom doors closed softly and the house grew quiet.
Downstairs, the stone house fell into a profound stillness. Lydia walked into the kitchen, made herself a fresh mug of tea, and sat down at the pine table to wait. She didn’t reach for her translation folder or her Carnival binders.
The inbox could wait; the list could wait.
For the first time in months, she was content to simply sit in the quiet, watching the soft gold of the late evening sun paint long, pale squares across the floorboards, waiting for the front door to open.