There Jem, his sister and his mother were waiting for Thomas Kellaway, who had gone inside to find Philip Astley. Ignoring the curious passersby as best he could, Jem fixed his eyes instead on the nearby river, which Mr Smart had decided to wander along, “to see a bit o’ London,” and on Westminster Bridge, which arched over the water and pitched into the distant mass of square towers and spires of Westminster Abbey. None of the rivers Jem knew in Dorset – the Frome the size of a country lane, the Piddle a mere rivulet he could easily jump across – bore any resemblance to the Thames, a broad channel of rocking, choppy green-brown water pulled back and forth by the distant tide of the North Sea. Both river and bridge were clogged with traffic – boats on the Thames, carriages, carts and pedestrians on the bridge. Jem had never seen so many people at once, even on market day in Dorchester, and was so distracted by the sight of so much movement that he could take in little detail.

Though tempted to get down from the cart and join Mr Smart at the water’s edge, he didn’t dare leave Maisie and his mother. Maisie Kellaway was gazing about in bewilderment and flapping a handkerchief at her face. “Lord, it’s hot for March,” she said. “It weren’t this hot back home, were it, Jem?”

“It’ll be cooler tomorrow,” Jem promised. Although Maisie was two years older than him, it often seemed to Jem that she was his younger sister, needing protection from the unpredictability of the world – though there was little of that in the Piddle Valley. His job would be harder here.

Anne Kellaway was watching the river as Jem had, her eyes fixed on a boy pulling hard on the oars of a rowboat. A dog sat opposite him, panting in the heat; he was the boy’s only cargo. Jem knew what was filling his mother’s mind as she followed the boy’s progress: she was thinking of his brother Tommy, who had loved dogs and always had at least one from the village following him about.

Tommy Kellaway had been a handsome boy, with a tendency to daydream that baffled his parents. It was clear early on that he would never be a chairmaker, for he had no affinity for wood and what it could do, nor any interest in the tools his father tried to teach him to use. He would let an auger come to a halt mid-turn, or a lathe spin slower and slower and stop as he gazed at the fire or into the middle distance – a trait he inherited from his father, but without the ability then to get back to his work.

Despite this essential uselessness – a trait Anne Kellaway would normally despise – his mother loved him more than her other children, though she could not have said why. Perhaps she felt he was more helpless and so needed her more. Certainly he was good company, and made her laugh as no one else could. He had made her laugh the month before when he climbed the pear tree at the back of the Kellaways’ garden, swearing he would pick the one pear left, which had managed to cling on to its branch and hung just out of reach all winter, teasing them, even though they knew the cold would have ruined its taste. Anne Kellaway had encouraged him with her laughter to take a step onto a branch that snapped, and he fell and broke his neck. Her laughter caught in her throat and had not been dislodged since, along with a sharp pain in her chest whenever she thought of him. The day Tommy was buried in the Piddletrenthide church yard alongside his grandparents, Anne Kellaway turned to her husband and said, “Mr Astley invited you, didn’t he? Let’s go to London.” [more]