Scarlett - Cathy Cassidy [45]
‘Let’s call it a day,’ I suggest when the last mould has been filled and the cauldron, ladle and measuring jug have been set to soak in the sink. ‘It’s way too hot to work.’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Clare says uncertainly.
Outside the window, the first crash of thunder booms out across the valley.
The rain starts then, slowly at first, big drops of rain that spatter my hand as I reach out to pull the window closed. By the time Clare has tidied the workbench, it’s pelting down, hammering against the workshop’s tin roof.
‘This has been threatening all week,’ Clare says, draping blankets over the freshly poured trays of soap. ‘At least the storm will clear the air.’
I frown. ‘I hope Dad and Holly are OK in Galway.’
‘Might not even be raining there,’ Clare says. ‘The valley has much more dramatic weather than the rest of the area, because of the lough and the mountains. We get these storms sometimes. It’s not really surprising after all that hot weather – should have known it wouldn’t last!’
We pull the door shut behind us and run across the grass to the house. The rain lashes us with icy fingers, pelting our hair, running down our bare arms in tiny rivulets. By the time we get inside, we’re drenched. Clare chucks me a towel and I rub at my hair, heading upstairs to change. I pick out a black top and a short, red, wraparound skirt. When I come back down, Clare has the patchwork cot quilt spread out over her knees and a bag of scrap fabric spilt out across the table. Two more lemonades sit side by side next to the scrap-bag.
‘Thanks, Clare.’
I pick up my drink and drift over to the window. The rain is sluicing down so fast I can barely see out – my plans to spend the afternoon by the lough with Kian are not looking good. A new crash of thunder makes me step back from the window.
‘It’s getting closer,’ I say. ‘I hope the chickens will be OK.’
‘They’ve coped with worse than this,’ Clare tells me. ‘They won’t like it, of course, but these storms never last too long. Don’t worry, Scarlett.’
It’s silly, I know, but I was really scared of thunderstorms when I was a kid. Now I know that there’s nothing really to be scared of, but still, each flash of lightning and crash of thunder twists my insides a little. I sit down at the table, sipping my drink, and open my maths book at a fresh chapter.
I’ve been staring at the first problem for a whole five minutes when Clare takes the book away and closes it gently.
‘Help me, instead,’ she says. ‘It’ll take your mind off things.’
‘I’m fine,’ I protest.
‘I know you are,’ Clare says lightly. ‘It’s just that I could do with some advice. I’ve almost finished this, but it still looks a bit flat and ordinary. It needs something else – I just don’t know what!’
I spread the quilt out across the table. It’s beautiful – a tiny patchwork of random shapes and colours, overstitched with bright embroidery threads. I can see the pale blue stripes of Holly’s outgrown school dress, a washed-out scrap of denim from an old pair of Dad’s jeans, a pastel floral print that has to be cut from something of Clare’s. Bits and pieces of their lives are stitched into this quilt, pieced together to make the new baby warm and welcome.
‘It needs more colour,’ Clare says decisively. ‘Something strong and vivid to frame the paler scraps. A border – red maybe?’
The thunder booms again outside, rattling the windowpanes.
‘I – I’d like to put something into the quilt,’ I say softly. ‘I know I’m not a proper sister, but…’
‘Scarlett, you are!’ Clare exclaims. ‘You’re going to be this baby’s half-sister, exactly like Holly. I’d love you to contribute something to the quilt. I’ve wanted to ask you a hundred times, but I was scared you’d say no…’
‘I would have said no,’ I admit. ‘I didn’t want to be part of this family, or part of this project, not to start with. But – well, I feel differently now. It’s not too late, is it?’
Clare puts a hand out to touch my cheek. ‘It’s not too late at all,’ she says. ‘How could