"There's nothing to be afraid of, Kerensa," she said.

"Oh, isn't there!" contradicted Johnny. "Miss Kerensa Carlee is guilty of trespassing. She's been caught in the act. We must think up a punishment for her."

He was teasing, of course. He wasn't going to hurt me; he had noticed my long black hair and I saw his eyes on the bare skin of my shoulder where it showed through my torn smock.

Kim said: "It isn't only cats who die of curiosity."

"Do be careful," ordered Justin. He turned to me. "You've been very silly. Don't you know that scrambling about a wall that has just collapsed could be dangerous? Moreover, what are you doing here?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Now get out ... the faster the better."

I hated them all—Justin for his coldness, and talking to me as though I was no different from the people who lived in the cottages on his father's estates, Johnny and Kim for their teasing, and Mellyora because she knew how I felt and was sorry for me.

I ran, but when I came to the door of the walled garden and was at a safe distance from them, I stopped and looked back at them.

They were still standing in a semicircle watching me. Mellyora was the one I had to stare at; she looked so concerned—and her concern was for me.

I put out my tongue; I heard Johnny and Kim laughing. Then I turned my back on them and sped away.

Granny Bee was sitting outside the cottage when I reached home; she often sat in the sun, her stool propped up against the wall, her pipe in her mouth; her eyes half closed as she smiled to herself.

I threw myself down beside her and told her what had happened. She rested her hand on my head as I talked; she liked to stroke my hair which was like her own, for although she was an old woman her hair was thick and black. She took great care of it, sometimes wearing it in two thick plaits, at others piling it high in coils. People said that it wasn't natural for a woman of her age to have hair like that; and Granny Bee liked them to say it. She was proud of her hair, yes, but it was more than that; it was a symbol. Like Samson's, I used to tell her, and she would laugh. I knew that she brewed a special preparation which she brushed in every night and she would sit for five minutes massaging her head. No one knew what she did except Joe and me, and Joe didn't notice; he was always too busy with some bird or animal; but I would sit and watch her do her hair and she used to say to me, "I'll tell you how to keep your hair, Kerensa; then you'll have a head of hair like mine till the day you die." But she hadn't told me as yet. "All in good time," she added. "And if I was to be took sudden, you'd find the receipt in the corner cupboard."

Granny Bee loved Joe and me and it was a wonderful thing to be loved by her; but what was more wonderful still was to know that I was the first with her always. Joe was like a little pet; we loved him in a protective sort of way; but between Granny and me there was a closeness which we both knew about and were glad of.

She was a wise woman; I don't mean merely that she had good sense; but she was known for miles round for her special powers and people of all sorts came to see her. She could cure them of their ailments and they trusted her more than they did the doctor. The cottage was filled with smells which changed from day to day, according to the remedies which were being brewed. I was learning what herbs to gather in the woods and fields and what they would cure. She was also believed to have special powers which enabled her to see into the future; I asked her to teach me, too, but she said it was something you taught yourself by keeping your eyes and ears open, and learning about people—for human nature was the same all the world over; there was so much bad in the good and so much good in the bad, that it was all a matter of weighing up how much good or bad had been allotted to each one. If you knew your people you could make a good guess as to how they would act and that was seeing into the future. And when you became clever at it, people believed in you, and they'd often act the way you had told them to, just to help you along.

We lived on Granny's wisdom; and we didn't do too badly. When someone killed a pig, there would be a good joint for us. Often some grateful client would put a sack of potatoes or peas on our doorstep; there would often be hot baked bread. I was good at managing, too. I could cook well. I could bake our bread and pasties, and turn out a fine pie of taddage or squab.

I had been happier since Joe and I had come to Granny than I was before.

But the best thing of all was this bond between us; and I felt it now as I sat beside her at the cottage door.

"They mocked me," I said. "The St. Larnstons and Kim. Mellyora didn't though. She was sorry for me."

Granny said, "If you could make a wish now, what would it be?"

I pulled at the grass and didn't speak, for my yearnings were something I hadn't put into words, not even to her.

She answered for me. "You'd be a lady, Kerensa. Riding in your carriage. You'd be dressed in silks and satins and you'd have a gown of bright, rich green and there would be silver buckles on your shoes."

"I'd read and write," I added. I turned to her eagerly: "Granny, will it come true?"

She didn't answer me and I was sad, asking myself why, if she could tell others the future she couldn't tell me. I gazed up at her pleadingly, but she didn't seem to see me. The sun glinted on her smooth blue-black hair which was braided about her head. That hair should have been on Lady St. Larnston. It gave Granny a proud look. Her dark eyes were alert although she hadn't kept those as young as her hair, there were lines about them.

"What are you thinking?" I asked.

"Of the day you came. Remember?"

I laid my head against her thigh. I was remembering.

Our first years—Joe's and mine—were spent by the sea. Our father had a little cottage on the quay which was rather like this one where we lived with Granny, except that ours had the big cellar underneath where we stored and salted the pilchards after a heavy catch. When I think of that cottage I think first of the smell of fish—the good smell which meant that the cellar was well stocked and we could be sure of enough to eat for a few weeks.

I had always looked after Joe because our mother had died when he was four and I was six and she told me always to look after my little brother. Sometimes when our father was out in the boat and the gales blew, we used to think our cottage would be swept into the sea; then I would cuddle Joe and sing to him to stop him being frightened. I used to pretend I wasn't frightened and found that was a good way not to be. Continually pretending helped me a good deal, so there wasn't much I was afraid of.

The best times were when the sea was calm and at harvest time when the shoals of pilchards came to our coast. The huers who were on watch all along the coast would sight the fish and give the warning. I remember how excited everyone was when the cry of "Hewa" went up, for "hewa" means in Cornish "a school of fish." Then the boats would go out and the catch would come in; and our cellars would be full. In the church there would be pilchards among the sheaves of wheat and the fruit and vegetables, to show God that the fishermen were as grateful as the farmers.

Joe and I would work together in the cellar putting one layer of salt between each layer of fish until I thought my hands would never be warm again or free from the smell of pilchards.

But those were the good times, and there came that winter when there was no more fish in our cellars and the gales were worse than they had been for eighty years. Joe and I with the other children used to go down to the beaches at night to twitch the sand eels out of the sand with our small iron crooks; we would bring them home and cook them. We brought back limpets too, and caught snails with which we made a sort of stew. We picked nettles and boiled them. I can remember what hunger was like in those times.

We used to dream we heard the welcome cry of "Hewa Hewa," which was a wonderful dream but made us more despairing than ever when we woke up.

I saw desperation in my father's eyes. I saw him looking at Joe and me; it was as though he came to a decision.

He said to me: "Your mother used to talk to you a lot about your Granny."

I nodded. I had always loved—and never forgotten—the stories of Granny Bee who lived in a place called St. Larnston.

"I reckon she'd like to have a look at 'ee—you and little Joe."

I did not realize the significance of those words until he took out the boat. He, having lived his life on the sea, was well aware of what was threatening. I remember his coming into the cottage and shouting to me. "They'm back!" he said. "It'll be pilchards for breakfast. Take care of Joe till I come back." I watched him go. I saw the others on the beach; they were talking to him and I knew what they were saying, but he didn't listen.

I hate the southwest wind. Whenever it blows I hear it as it blew that night. I put Joe to bed but I didn't go myself. I just sat up, saying "Pilchards for breakfast," and listening to the wind.

He never came back, and we were alone. I didn't know what to do but I still had to pretend for Joe's sake. Whenever I tried to think of what I could do, I kept hearing my mother's voice telling me to look after my brother; and then my father's saying: "Take care of Joe till I come back."

Neighbors helped us for a while, but those were bad times, and there was talk of putting us into the workhouse. Then I remember what my father had said about our Granny and I told Joe we were going to find her. So Joe and I set out for St. Larnston, and, in time and after some hardship, we came to Granny Bee.