Everybody said so. Everybody said how lucky they’d been, what with this view, and the pond, and the air and the trees. Even the earth they were lucky with, apparently; the black soil that grew things either very big or very small. The farm had belonged to a German couple and they’d sold the house to George for a song. So he told her, anyway. Sold it and run, he didn’t know where. North Africa, probably. The land had gone to the Bromleys, a nice addition to their coffee plantation, and George and Meg had got the house and the garden around. Lock, stock and barrel, everything: furniture, glassware, linen, rugs, right down to the books, all in German, and a rheumy old dog called Otto, who would come running to the right tone of voice, whatever you called him, little Will discovered. Lying in bed Meg would run her fingers over the pillowcase till she felt the raised edge of the monogram: ‘KvG’. She was sleeping on someone else’s name, and sometimes she was sure, even now, that she dreamed someone else’s dreams.
