Read Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand for Free Online Page B

it.
    “No, Papa,” I said. “I just wanted to tell Poppy about David and Goliath.”
    Papa looked blank.
    “You know. The Bible story about the Philistines.”
    “Oh, I see.” He stood up and fetched it down from the shelf. “Here it is. Now, off to sleep with you.” Papa stooped to give me a kiss on the forehead. “Don’t stay up too late. Remember we leave for Castlemaine in the morning.”
    In the hallway I stood under the gas lamp and opened the Bible. In spiky upright script, my grandmother had written:
    To my daughter Penelope on the occasion of her Confirmation, I give this book in order that she may read it daily to banish pride and selfishness.
    She’d followed her inscription with a list of family birthdays. There was the one I was looking for.
Waldo 19/4/26
. In different handwriting, next to Waldo’s birthday someone had scrawled another date:
Died 1/5/42
.
    In 1842 he was only sixteen. I couldn’t tell for sure, but I guessed Della Parker was thirty at the most. I didn’t need to do any quick sums in my head, for I’d found my answer. Waldo could not possibly be Della’s father.

7
TO SHANTIGAR
    Next morning, there wasn’t time to puzzle over Della Parker. It was all hustle and bustle as we got ready to leave for our holiday in Castlemaine. Only when we arrived at the station did I remember last night.
    Della was unhinged. Perhaps even dangerous. Little bubbles of fear began to surface in my mind. Would she appear on the platform? Or even board our train? I was so intent on scanning the crowd for that tall figure in grey that I bumped into a couple of strangers, and even tripped over Papa’s cane.
    Poppy looked me up and down. “Watch out,” she said, and her small face was deadly serious. “We don’t want no more accidents on railway stations.”
    Last year, I’d nearly fallen on the tracks in front of a train, and it was Poppy who’d saved my life.
    “No, Poppy. We don’t want any accidents,” I said, hugging her. I paid proper attention after that.
    Still, I was relieved when the locomotive puffed its way out of the station with no sign of Della Parker. I wanted to spare Papa even the smallest anxiety. And if I didn’t have to worry about her, I wouldn’t. I intended our Castlemaine holiday to be as uneventful as possible. Even a bit boring would be fine.

    Once the train got going, Connie and Poppy began to doze.
    “They are tired after such a late night,” said Papa. “Let them sleep. Me, I shall read.”
    In a few minutes, he too was snoozing. I rummaged in my basket. Knitting (I was making socks for Horace), a novel, my French grammar … Somehow nothing appealed and I decided to look out of the window instead. We steamed through the suburbs of Melbourne, through scattered small towns and out into the countryside. The brown Keilor Plains were parched and dusty at the end of a long hot summer. Then I nodded off too.
    I was leaning over a balcony, looking down on a huge, empty stage in an empty theatre. There was no orchestra, no chorus and no audience – just me. Slowly my mother walked onto the stage. Her voice reverberated in the empty space until it sounded as if a whole choir was singing.
    “Whatever may bind you,
    I will always find you …”
    Then, suddenly, I realised there was someone else in the theatre. It was Papa, sitting by himself in the middle of the front row. He was wearing immaculate evening clothes with a white gardenia in his buttonhole. He watched my mother with a smile on his face, whispering the words of the song as she sang them.
    “I will always find you …”
    She broke off in the middle of a line and stood looking down at him. “Pierre?” she said.
    Then she held out her arms.
    I blinked. I sat up, rubbed my eyes and looked around the carriage. The two girls were fast asleep. So was Papa. I studied him for a few seconds. His hair was white, not black as it had been in my dream, but he was still a handsome man. He was smiling in his sleep.
    As