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Constance
Rosie Thomas
A novel from the Sunday Times bestselling author of Iris and Ruby.Connie Thorne was a foundling, a child left by her mother for strangers to find. Forty years on, without ever being able to discover her true identity, she has put all her energy into creating a flawless shell for herself.As a child, she was musical, her sister Jeanette was deaf. One of them was dark, the other sunny. Yet they both fell in love with the same man. And her feelings for Bill, Jeanette's husband, are the one part of herself that Connie can never reshape.When she hears the news that her sister is dying, the last thing Connie wants is to leave her Bali home and return to London. But with the bitterness of betrayal still between them, Connie and Jeanette have to learn to forgive each other.Surrounded by family, can Constance make her peace with who she really is – and who she loves?
Constance
Rosie Thomas
Copyright (#ulink_462df66f-b12c-5912-96a6-359e212e6b13)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2007
Copyright © Rosie Thomas 2007
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016 Jacket photographs © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)
Rosie Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007173563
Ebook Edition © April 2016 ISBN: 9780007389551
Version: 2016-04-28
Praise (#ulink_69721e55-0a91-5000-a974-be5ea4114a80)
‘Her evocation…touches on the variances and nuances of love between men and women, and the power of family relationships to destroy lives’
ELIZABETH BUCHAN, Daily Mail
‘Thomas can write with ravishing sensuality’
KATE SAUNDERS, The Times
‘Rosie Thomas writes so beautifully about the feelings of people in war, the imminence of death and the importance of passionate and romantic love’
DAME TANNI GREY-THOMPSON
‘Honest and absorbing, Rosie Thomas mixes the bitter and the hopeful with the knowledge that the human heart is far more complicated than any rule suggests’
Mail on Sunday
‘Rosie Thomas writes with beautiful, effortless prose, and shows a rare compassion and a real understanding of the nature of love’
The Times
‘Thomas’s novels are beautifully written. This one is a treat’
Marie Claire
‘A terrific book, beautifully written…questions about identity, belonging, infidelity, dying and forgiveness make this a very moving study of the human heart’
Australian Women’s Weekly
‘A heart-rending story…exquisitely drawn’
Express
‘Thomas creates unforgettable characters and settings. She’s a superb writer’
Choice
‘Terrific…a real weepy’
Sunday Times
Dedication (#ulink_3c943dc0-a8dc-5b1c-8251-2eae2dfa1e32)
For Cameron MitchelsonBali
Contents
Cover (#u0792ae59-ecd9-590a-bcc5-163c15ae9eb0)
Title Page (#u179ceebf-e22c-556f-b6c5-140e0c28abaa)
Copyright (#u9ad6012f-0488-58a8-925d-a9e3507f527a)
Praise (#ud2774445-9260-5fd1-b8dc-5963da3e5426)
Dedication (#ub700bfc8-501d-5ca0-a571-00721638dbac)
PROLOGUE (#u7c77783f-b143-56f2-a6cd-2baec608aa45)
ONE (#u7d37d11f-e2b4-5553-9e6d-ea1b3d2c51e8)
TWO (#ucdc9234b-b330-59d1-8ae1-e042c3c33f48)
THREE (#u033dcf2a-faae-5d80-ba2f-44d65ba4857d)
FOUR (#u9fa341dc-0c93-5dc1-9682-d9c07a8e9dd8)
FIVE (#u5b409b6e-4c92-5fd4-ae33-22001aa07735)
SIX (#ua34c0f0a-0b35-59e9-a401-0c153b49255e)
SEVEN (#ua5eb2d7b-6db6-529f-9b4c-49abfbec6a31)
EIGHT (#u111b6c97-6a24-59f9-bcb9-0acbe429913d)
NINE (#u5b4f8af0-282c-510b-88d1-2761def7312c)
TEN (#u6cdcba0e-2ca4-5518-8ace-a51250f4b1bd)
ELEVEN (#ua8e88067-8aa8-5ed7-b5d4-da8bc76b69a3)
TWELVE (#u0489a95f-cf7d-5a20-9451-4fdd17a56234)
THIRTEEN (#u68086c3f-b81a-5dbe-9d9e-f447311d5e73)
FOURTEEN (#u89510380-3c78-54a3-a872-87cb5d8baf09)
FIFTEEN (#u165538a5-658e-533f-b736-5ea059bbf27c)
SIXTEEN (#u6f2cd3cd-d973-5e8e-af50-59812efd30d8)
SEVENTEEN (#u754adcfd-4802-5fb9-b253-db8f56ae76c2)
Acknowledgements (#udb606d46-b7c4-59d9-9f56-1e4b7e282cce)
Keep Reading: Daughter of the House (#u7e81e33a-dcc5-5d10-83e6-3a6d56d2aac9)
About the Author (#uaa0b5bde-1115-5c2c-9a11-447f2f20a419)
Also by Rosie Thomas (#ue8199536-e805-5e21-ae03-c1c4e946886f)
About the Publisher (#u188c82e2-e892-5391-bdcd-0f64092aec64)
PROLOGUE London, June 1963 (#ulink_aaded6a8-5c8d-589c-91da-dbe72b95e324)
The boy and the girl were both just sixteen. It was nearly ten o’clock, which meant they would soon have to separate for a night and a whole day.
They crept down the empty street with their arms twined, he shortening his step to match hers and she resting her head on his shoulder. The overhanging plane trees made a tunnel of the pavement. The gardens on either side were dark recesses of rustling leaves, the territory of prowling cats and maybe a rat invading a dustbin. Under one of the trees the boy stopped walking. He hooked his arms round the girl’s shoulders and kissed her for the hundredth time. Her mouth felt bruised, but she kissed him back. His hands moved down to cover her breasts.
‘Mikey.’
‘I love you,’ he protested. His knee rubbed between her thighs and he heard the soft, enticing rasp her nylons made against his jeans.
‘Mikey. My dad said ten o’clock. You heard him.’
‘We’ve got ten minutes, then.’
He raised his head and glanced about. There was no one to be seen. This was a quiet road with only a few parked cars, and tall hedges screening the bay windows of the houses. Turn left at the end, and he reckoned it was a couple of minutes’ walk to Kathy’s house. If you ran.
He steered her towards the nearest gate. It stood open and a tiled path of coloured triangles and diamonds gleamed faintly in the darkness. No light showed behind the glass door panels, or in any of the windows.
‘Mike, we can’t,’ she murmured, but she came with him anyway.
Behind the hedge she pressed her mouth against his, teasing him with the sly curve of her smile. He answered by stroking his hand upwards from her knee. High up, his fingers met the smooth bulge of soft bare flesh above the stocking-top. They pressed into the vertical mattress of leaves, breathing into each other’s mouths, their tongues busy. The powerful, coarsely sweet smell of privet blossom flooded around them.
At first he thought the sound was a cat among the dustbins. It was a high-pitched cry, somewhere between a bleat and a howl. It stopped and then started again.
Kathy moved her head sideways. Her sweet spit smeared his lips.
‘What’s that?’ she breathed.
‘Some old cat.’
The cry came again.
‘It’s not. Listen, it sounds just like a baby.’
‘Don’t be soft. Come back here.’
‘Leave off. Where is it?’
She stooped down, her oval face and her pale cardigan a conjoined blur against the blackness. She pushed aside the lowest branches of the hedge and felt along the margin of dead leaves and blown litter underneath.
‘My God.’ Her voice turned high and sharp.
‘Shhh,’ he warned.
Kathy rocked back, almost tipping over her heels. She was lifting a bag in her two hands, a bag like the one his mother took to go to the shops, made of brown plastic that was supposed to be leather, with a zip and two upright looped handles. The mouth of the bag gaped open and the cat’s cry was much louder.
‘Look at this.’
He knelt beside her as she dipped her hands inside. He could smell dusty earth as well as privet.
‘Look,’ she breathed.
She was holding a small bundle of blanket. Between them they turned the folds aside and touched the baby’s tiny head. It was streaked with dark patches and waxy white stuff. Its mouth was open and its eyes screwed shut. Now that they saw it really was a baby, its crying sounded weak and nearly hopeless.
Mike was amazed. ‘What’s someone’s baby doing out here?’
With the baby cradled against her, Kathy glanced up at him. She looked serious, and wise, suddenly much older than a mere minute ago.
‘It’s abandoned. The mother’s left it because she can’t keep it. Probably no one knows she’s even had it. The poor thing.’
With the tip of her finger, Kathy stroked the baby’s cheek. Mike wasn’t sure whether poor thing meant the baby or its mother.
