‘He is, I swear it. He’s sweet on you.’ Jane couldn’t help giggling as she said it. She was deadly serious, but Phoebe’s laughter at the mere suggestion had got her started, as it always did — Phoebe’s laugh was very infectious. ‘Stop it,’ she said whilst Phoebe rolled on the floor pretending uncontrollable mirth. ‘Why else do you think he’s asked us out sailing? It’s because he’s sweet on you, Maude told me.’ As usual, Jane didn’t know what on earth Phoebe found so funny, but she was starting to lose control herself and her giggles were turning to laughter.

‘Lofty!’ Phoebe gasped. ‘He’s a spider. A daddy-longlegs.’

Phoebe hadn’t found the fact that Ben Lofthouse was sweet on her at all surprising, but she could never resist the urge to make Jane laugh, and together they rolled about hysterically on the wooden floor of the loft, safe in the knowledge that no-one could hear them. The stables were their favourite place and the loft their hideout. Every weekend, they’d climb up the broad, wooden ladder, through the open trapdoor and into their own special world.

Both girls attended Wykeham House School in High Street, Phoebe excelling at hockey and Jane at debating, but their differing interests had little effect upon the friendship they’d shared for more than half of their young lives. Neither did the fact that they came from different walks of life. They were inseparable and such trivialities never entered the scheme of things. And now that they were fifteen years old and looking at boys in a whole new light, another dimension had been added to the pleasure they found in each other’s company, a complicity and secrecy all of their own.

Jane wasn’t jealous that Phoebe appeared to have a serious admirer in the form of Lofty; to the contrary, she was fascinated. Lofty was two years older than the girls and attended Price’s, an old and well-established school with a history of achievers. Despite the fact that his family had been, for generations, market gardeners, Lofty was expected to break the mold and go on to university whilst his brothers took over the business, but he didn’t really want to.

At seventeen years of age, hormones racing, all Ben Lofthouse wanted to do was kiss Phoebe Chisolm, and hopefully more. He’d tell himself, time and again, that she was only fifteen, and who ever looked at fifteen-year-olds? But there was something different about Phoebe Chisolm.

And there was. Phoebe herself didn’t recognise it. Not really. She knew she could get her way if she wanted to, with her father and schoolmates and now boys. And she flirted and teased and promised her friendship. She never considered that she used people, she simply set out to get what she wanted, like Maude Cookson’s pony for weekend rides at Titchfield. She took advantage of occasions when they presented themselves, she told herself, that was all.

It was Jane who recognised Phoebe’s power. She didn’t envy it and she didn’t wish to possess it, but she definitely recognised it. Her friend Phoebe could get whatever she wanted if she tried. Phoebe made things happen. That was why she’d danced three times with Lofty at the invitation school dance at Foresters Hall last night, Jane knew it. The following weekend was the Aquatic Games and Regatta, an annual gala event at Fareham, and Phoebe wanted Lofty to take her out sailing. But Jane had to come too, Phoebe had insisted, and now it was all arranged.

‘I have to go home,’ Jane said an hour later after they’d talked about the next picture that was coming to the Savoy Cinema, and discussed film stars in general, and agreed that, given their current interest in boys, their favourite Greta Garbo had been replaced by Ronald Colman. They’d also come to a decision as to whether or not Lofty should come with them to the Savoy on Friday night.

‘I think we’d better let him,’ Phoebe said quite seriously, ‘it’s the regatta the next day.’ And that brought about another giggling fit. Phoebe really was shockingly manipulative.

Jane wished she could stay in the loft all morning as they often did on a Saturday. But this was a Sunday and it was eleven o’clock. Time to go.

Every Sunday Jane would come to Chisolm House after the early church service she attended with her father, always popping home to change first. Ron Miller would certainly not allow his daughter to play around in ‘those mucky old stables’, as he called them, in her best Sunday clothes. And now it was time for her to go home and cook the huge weekend roast. There would be only the two of them, but they’d live happily on cold mutton for the rest of the week.

The family roast had remained a tradition after Jane’s mother’s death when she was four and, as her father never broke with tradition, it continued to be a weekly event, despite the fact that her two older brothers had long since left home. Twenty-two-year-old Dave had joined his older brother Wilfred in London a whole three years ago. The family was regularly reunited at Christmas, but apart from the brothers’ odd brief visits to Fareham, there was little contact. Jane was too young to go to London on her own, Ron maintained, and he steadfastly refused to go himself. He hated the city.

Jane’s father was not a martinet, but he was a proud man, and his pride sometimes made it hard for others. A tile worker, prematurely retired from the Fontley Brick and Tile Works due to a back injury, Ron Miller would accept no financial help from his adult sons, apart from the payment of Jane’s school fees.

‘I’ve no need for your money,’ he’d say gruffly, ‘but if you’ve a mind to help with your sister’s schooling, I’d not refuse.’

In the meantime, his frugal household survived on the income he made as a gardener, his principal employer being Arthur Chisolm. Ron had originally refused the doctor’s offer. Their daughters having forged a strong friendship from their early school days, he’d presumed it to be an act of charity and he’d have none of it. ‘Accept naught for nowhit’ was Ron Miller’s philosophy and the adage was repeated time and again to his children.

It had taken all of Arthur Chisolm’s considerable diplomacy to persuade the man to reconsider. ‘A good day’s work for a good day’s pay, Ron,’ he’d said. ‘There are few who give value for money these days, but you’re one who does and I’d appreciate it if you’d take up the offer.’

Put that way, Ron could not refuse and, over the years, a bond had been formed between the gruff, burly gardener and his employer, a bond principally forged through the friendship of their daughters. Sometimes, after their respective days’ hard work, the men would even share an ale at the King’s Head or the Red Lion, and only then would Ron, at Arthur’s insistence, refer to his friend by his Christian name. At all other times Arthur remained ‘Dr Chisolm’.

‘A proud man,’ Arthur would comment to his wife on many an occasion. ‘At times too proud, I think.’ He was unaware that his comments were falling upon deaf ears, for Alice Chisolm privately considered it only correct Ron Miller should show deference to her husband.

Fine-looking at forty, with an air of regality and without yet a fleck of grey in her auburn hair, Alice was considered by some to be over-conscious of her image, indeed even ‘a bit of a snob’. But in truth it was her husband’s image which was of the greatest concern to Alice. Arthur Chisolm was a man of refinement and a benefactor to many. He believed in helping the underprivileged, accepting barter from the poorer market gardeners in lieu of a consultation fee, or visiting their sick children and waiving the fee entirely. His philanthropy met with Alice’s approval. Although she thought on occasions he went too far, it was right, she believed, for such a man to do, and to be seen to be doing, good works for the community. But his dignity must be maintained at all costs. The fact that it was Arthur himself who invited familiarity amongst those he treated often displeased her. She chided him on occasions, always gently, always mindful of her position as his wife, but her remonstrations invariably went unheeded.

‘Oh my dear,’ he’d say with good humour, ‘you’re too conservative, this is the thirties, you must move with the times.’ He knew she was being protective, and he loved her for it, but it really was unnecessary, he thought.

Arthur Chisolm considered himself a modern man and, whilst his and his wife’s differing views on protocol rarely caused friction in their marriage, there was one subject upon which they could not agree, and that subject was Phoebe. Arthur knew that he regularly incurred Alice’s disapproval when he encouraged his daughter’s independent streak, but he couldn’t help himself. He was proud of Phoebe. Even in her flightiness, Phoebe had pluck, he thought. Pluck and determination. His daughter was a modern young woman and he admired her for it, much to Alice’s consternation.

The morning of the regatta dawned bright and clear and Lofty awoke excited at the prospect of a whole day in Phoebe’s company. She’d even let him hold her hand briefly at the cinema last night. He couldn’t remember the name of the picture show they’d seen, something with James Cagney in it. He liked James Cagney, but he’d been aware of nothing but Phoebe’s presence beside him. He wondered if the fact that she’d let him hold her hand meant she might agree to step out with him. It was all very well being included in Jane and Phoebe’s company when they’d a mind to invite him, but it was hardly the same as stepping out. Today would be the test, he decided. After the regatta he’d ask Phoebe to go to the pictures alone with him next Friday. And he’d offer to seek her parents’ permission – she’d know he was serious then. He was nervous at the prospect, but nonetheless determined.

Lofty wished he could feel confident with girls. He did with his male friends, he was quite popular at school, an excellent batsman and an asset to the cricket team. But with girls he was shy. Gangly and awkward in their company. Phoebe was different, though: he knew that she liked him. She made him feel special. And she was very much looking forward to going sailing, she’d told him so. Thank goodness Eric Frogmorton had agreed to lend him his dinghy. But then Eric had no need of his dinghy today, since he was crewing on his father’s yacht in the official races.

Lofty dived into the bathroom before the rest of the household began to stir – he wasn’t going to queue up behind his brothers this morning. He’d get to the boatshed good and early, he decided. Then he’d rig the dinghy and sail her up the creek to the far end of the recreation ground so he’d be ready and waiting when the girls arrived at ten o’clock.

Phoebe called around to Jane’s house in Adelaide Place at nine in the morning. She and Jane wanted to get down to the Quay early and watch the first of the greasy pole competitions to be held in front of the Flour Mill. The official yachting races would take place a little later in the day when the wind was brisk, but Phoebe and Jane didn’t want to miss a moment of the festivities.

The narrow garden opposite the Millers’ front door was the most impressive of the mews’ plots, brimming with healthy produce. Ron Miller grew all his own vegetables, and Phoebe loved harvesting the beans with Jane, or unearthing the carrots and turnips. As she knocked on Jane’s door, she wished for the umpteenth time that they had a vegetable garden at Chisolm House.

‘Hello, Phoebe.’ Ron Miller led the way into the poky little kitchen where Jane was drying the dishes. ‘Will you take a cup of tea and a slice of toast? We’ve some excellent marmalade our Jane bought at the markets.’ Ron liked Phoebe Chisolm. She’d be a right handful, he thought, she’d a mind of her own, but there were no airs and graces about her. She was personable and polite and a fine friend for his daughter.

‘No thank you, Mr Miller, I’ve just had breakfast. Are you ready, Jane?’

‘Can I go now, Dad? I’ve done the dishes.’

‘ ’Course you can, girl. I’ll see you down there when the big yachts start up.’ Ron was meeting some old mates from the brickworks at the Castle in the Air and they were going to make a day of it. ‘You have a good time now.’ He looked at them fondly as they dived for the door. Brimming with girlish excitement, one dark, one fair, chalk and cheese in appearance, and both pretty as a picture. He and Arthur Chisolm had every right to be proud of their daughters. He called out, ‘You two take care, mind,’ but the door swung shut and, as usual, they didn’t hear him.

The waters of Fareham Creek were already abuzz. Rowing craft, doubles, fours and eights, skimmed the surface. Sailing dinghies and small yachts milled about, tacking to and fro, miraculously avoiding collision. Whether they were practising for their races later in the day or simply having fun before the official water course was cleared wasn’t evident, but Fareham’s annual Aquatic Games and Regatta had most certainly begun. All about the quays and the riverbanks spectators were gathering. Children were swimming in the shallows by the recreation ground and families were already laying out rugs to claim the choicest picnic spots before the rush.

The first of the greasy pole competitions was just about to start. Two vertical poles had been dug into the shallows and a horizontal pole extended from each, at the end of which hung a leg of mutton or pork, the prize for the winner who could reach it. The contenders were mostly young men, fit and athletic, but it nevertheless seemed an impossible task. Jane and Phoebe watched for an hour, yelling encouragement along with the other spectators, but every contestant either slid back into the mud or, closer to the prize, landed in the water, much to the delight of the crowd.

Jane suddenly realised the time. ‘It’s half past ten,’ she said.

‘Did you see that?’ Phoebe cheered and clapped her hands. ‘He nearly got there.’

‘We said we’d meet Lofty at ten o’clock.’

‘Just a bit longer. Bill Pertwee’s up next.’ Phoebe didn’t even look at her.

‘All right. I’ll go without you.’ Jane turned to leave. She knew better than to try to cajole Phoebe; it was much easier to simply take the matter into her own hands.

Phoebe heaved a sigh. Jane was being bossy again. But she obediently followed, aware that she couldn’t always get her way with Jane.

‘Sorry we’re late,’ she said to Lofty with a winning smile, not bothering to invent a reason why, which she would normally do if she thought it was of any importance.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Lofty replied, thankful to see her. He’d had a sinking feeling for the past half hour that she wasn’t going to show up. ‘All aboard.’

The girls, both in light summer dresses, took off their shoes and waded into the shallows. Lofty held on to the bow, the sail luffing in the breeze, as they climbed into the boat.

‘Sit in the middle,’ he instructed and they huddled together on the small centre seat as Lofty pushed the sturdy wooden dinghy out into the water and clambered over the stern. He grasped the tiller and tacked to port, hauling in the main sheet, the sail catching the breeze, the dinghy obeying, sluggishly at first. When he and Eric sailed they put the jib up too, but Lofty had decided against the extra canvas today; the girls had never been sailing before and, if he was to teach them, it was better to keep things simple.

‘When I say “going about”, you have to duck,’ he told them, ‘because the boom swings around. I’ll show you. Going about!’ he said in his best skipper’s voice and he turned the dinghy into the wind.

The girls ducked under the heavy boom as it swung over their heads, and the boat set off on a starboard tack into the middle of the creek to join the throng of other small sailing craft.

Lofty handed Phoebe the rope. ‘This is the main sheet,’ he said, and he told her how to release it when they were going about and then haul in the slack as they started a fresh tack. The breeze was picking up and the dinghy was now zipping through the water. Small as she was, she was a sturdy, well-designed craft, locally built like many of the vessels out on the creek that day.

Lofty taught the girls how to sit on the side and lean out over the water when the boat listed in the wind, and they loved it. They were becoming real sailors now.

‘Make it lean more, Lofty,’ Phoebe yelled, pulling on the length of main sheet, the spray catching her in the face.

‘Yes, make it lean more!’ Jane’s feet were hooked under the seat, her back arched as she clutched the gunwales, her whole body out over the water. It was thrilling.

‘Want a race?’ a nearby voice shouted. Another dinghy of similar size was speeding along beside them. It was Billy-boy, sailing on his own. Billy-boy was only fourteen, but he was serving an apprenticeship with Skip Johnston, the boat builder, and was an excellent sailor.

‘Yes!’ Phoebe and Jane yelled in unison, ignoring the fact that it was Lofty’s right to reply.

‘First past the boatshed!’ Lofty shouted back to Billy-boy. If his power of decision was to be usurped, then at least he’d set the course.

The race was on. They had to tack three times before they could make a straight run for the boatshed and Lofty was slightly in the lead. His was by far the speedier craft and it was all credit to Billy-boy’s skill as a yachtsman that the race was such a close one.

‘We’re winning! We’re winning!’ Phoebe shrieked and, only seconds later, she and Jane let out a cheer as the dinghy streaked past the boatshed half a length ahead of Billy-boy.

Then, out of nowhere, a rowing shell appeared directly ahead of them. The four had rowed out from behind the slipway, unaware that the dinghy was bearing down upon them.

Lofty made a lightning decision: there was only one thing for it, he had to jibe. ‘Going about!’ he yelled, pushing the tiller hard to his left, the boat turning with the wind in an instant. He hadn’t taught the girls how to jibe, a much faster action than turning into the wind, and as the boom whipped across and the canvas luffed, they were caught off balance. The sail once again quickly gathered wind and the dinghy started to list, but the girls were unable to compensate, they were on the wrong side. The boat was about to capsize.

‘Let go the sheet,’ Lofty shouted. Phoebe did so, then everything seemed to happen at once. The sheet snaked briefly in the air like a mad thing, the dinghy righted itself, and Jane, unable to maintain her balance, was over the side, taking the sheet with her.

She landed on her back and, before she knew it, was underwater. She rolled over to swim to the surface, but there was something looped around her neck. It was the sheet, and it was tightening.

Lofty had seen Jane go over the side. He wasn’t worried, both girls could swim, he wouldn’t have taken them sailing otherwise, it was one of the rules. But thank goodness the boat hadn’t capsized – it would have been so humiliating in front of everyone. He’d pointed the dinghy hard into the breeze, but the sail was gathering wind and she was starting to come around. There must be tension on the sheet, he realised. ‘Let go of the sheet, Phoebe,’ he said again.

But Phoebe was leaning over the side, her hand clasped in Jane’s. ‘She’s caught in the rope!’ she screamed. ‘Help me!’

Jane had reached up and grasped Phoebe’s hand. She could see her friend’s terrified face as Phoebe leaned over the gunwales trying with all her might to haul her aboard. But the trailing end of the rope was caught under the stern of the dinghy and, as the sail slowly filled, the rope tightened and Jane was held below the water, her face only inches from the surface.

‘Help me!’ Phoebe screamed again. ‘Help me!’ Their hands were above the water, locked together, but try as she might she couldn’t pull Jane those precious inches closer. Nevertheless, her hand was a lifeline and she didn’t dare let go.

‘Jesus!’ After one quick look at the stricken girl, Lofty leaned over the stern to free the fouled rope. The sheet had fed itself up between the shaft of the rudder and the transom and the end of the rope was wedged there.

To Jane, her whole world now moved in slow motion. Her body was gliding gently through the water and, beyond the sun-dappled surface, so close, she could see Phoebe’s panic-stricken face. She seemed to be saying something, but her mouth was moving slowly as she formed the words and Jane couldn’t hear what it was. She looked up through the bottled glass of the water at Phoebe and the world above, and she could hear nothing. All was silence.

She felt no sense of panic. Her mind, like her body, was starting to drift. Peacefully. Far, far away. She wanted to tell Phoebe that everything was all right, and the tension in her hand loosened as she gave herself up to the strangely euphoric sensation of nothingness.

No! Phoebe wanted to scream it out, but she didn’t. Jane was giving up, she could tell. In her eyes was a calmness which Phoebe found frightening. She tightened her grip on Jane’s hand. Hold on, she thought, but she didn’t scream the words. Her own panic had evaporated. It was only a matter of time, any second now Lofty would free the rope. But Jane was giving up. And she mustn’t. She mustn’t. Hold on, Jane, Phoebe thought, focussing on the glazed eyes of her friend and willing all the strength she could into the lifeline of her hand. Hold on.

Lofty was desperate. The spliced end of the sheet was thicker than the rest of the rope and was firmly wedged, he couldn’t pull it through the gap. Once again he turned the boat into the wind to lessen the tension. The top of Jane’s head rose to the surface but the loop of the rope was so firmly around her neck that the weight of her body pulled her away from the boat and she still couldn’t surface high enough to breathe. Lofty was running out of time. The knife. Eric always kept a knife on board. Under the stern seat, in a leather scabbard. ‘Oh Jesus!’ Frantically he searched.

As Jane was pulled away from the side of the boat she could no longer see Phoebe’s face; she was looking down into the murky depths of the creek now. But she could feel Phoebe’s hand, still holding hers in a grip of iron. And Phoebe’s hand became an extension of her own, the only connection she had with life. There was power in Phoebe’s hand. Phoebe could make things happen, Phoebe could save her. The murky depths beckoned, but Jane’s mind had stopped drifting now as she realised she didn’t want to die. She held on for all she was worth.

Lofty had found the knife. He started sawing through the rope.

Leaning over the gunwales, her arm fully extended, Phoebe could feel Jane’s hand tighten about hers. She hadn’t given up. Jane was holding on with every last vestige of strength she possessed. Phoebe did the same.

‘Hurry, Lofty, hurry!’ she said, her own strength ebbing.

The knife was sharp, and it took Lofty only seconds. Suddenly, the rope was freed.

Jane surfaced from her silence to the chaos above, to a sun that was blinding and sounds which seemed deafening. Phoebe yelling, the sail loudly flapping, Lofty grunting as he hauled her aboard. She lay in the dinghy and tried to breathe but the air she gasped at stuck in her throat. Then, as blackness threatened to engulf her, she felt her chest over the wooden seat and Lofty pressing her hard in the centre of her back with the heels of his hands. ‘Come on, Jane, breathe,’ he was saying, and he pressed again, so hard that any minute her ribs might break. ‘Breathe.’ And then she was spluttering and coughing up water, and then gasping air and coughing up more water, until finally, chest heaving, she was gulping in huge lungfuls of air.

‘Thanks, Lofty,’ she managed to say, her voice little more than a croak, and she looked at Phoebe, who was suddenly quiet. ‘Thanks, Phoebe.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’ Their eyes locked and neither said a word. Something had happened between them and they both knew it.

All three were silent for a moment or so, as the shock of what might have occurred set in. Then Lofty said, ‘We’d better get you to a doctor.’ There was an ugly red mark around Jane’s neck where the rope had chafed her.

‘No.’ Jane felt her neck, the skin was tender and sore. Strange, she thought, it hadn’t hurt at all when she was underwater. ‘I’m fine, Lofty, really.’

‘You all right?’ a voice called. It was Billy-boy who’d cruised up alongside them. He’d laughed when the dinghy was about to capsize, and would have made a right joke of it if it had. Lofty might have won the race but he couldn’t control his boat in a simple jibe, he’d say. He’d laughed when he’d seen Jane go overboard too. Serve Lofty right for having girls on board, he’d thought. And they’d taken their time getting her out of the water. But now Lofty seemed to be in a bit of bother, the sail was flapping uselessly in the wind and they were drifting towards the shoreline. ‘Want a hand?’

‘Nope,’ Lofty grabbed the frayed end of the sheet and hauled in the sail. ‘We’re fine, thanks, just had a bit of trouble with the main.’

Billy-boy looked at the mainsail and couldn’t see any trouble with it at all. Well, that’s what happened when you had girls on board, he thought again. ‘Right you are then.’ And he left them to it.

Lofty sailed them back to the far end of the recreation ground. ‘I’m really sorry, Jane,’ he said as he helped her out of the boat. ‘I don’t know how it happened, I’m really, really sorry.’

‘It wasn’t your fault, Lofty.’ Jane smiled reassuringly. She could see he felt wretched. ‘Thank you for saving me.’ She refused once again to be taken to the doctor. ‘I just want to go home and change,’ she said, and Lofty watched miserably as the girls set off hand in hand along the railed path beside the water. It had been a freak accident and no-one’s fault, but it didn’t stop him feeling guilty.

‘Good heavens above, Jane, what happened to you?’ Mrs Cookson had set the family rug out on the grass and was unloading the picnic hamper whilst her younger children played nearby. She looked at the saturated summer dress clinging to Jane’s legs and the ringing wet curls dripping about her shoulders. ‘You’re soaked,’ she remarked, stating the obvious, as Mrs Cookson always did.

Before Jane could reply, Maude Cookson joined them. ‘She took a dunking off Eric Frogmorton’s boat,’ she said. Maude had been leaning on the path railings watching the proceedings. ‘And Lofty nearly capsized, I saw him.’

‘But he won the race,’ Phoebe interjected. ‘Did you see that too?’ Maude Cookson never meant to be rude, she was just blunt and, in Phoebe’s opinion, a bit stupid.

‘Yep, I saw that. He beat Billy-boy.’ Maude was impressed, Billy-boy had been junior champion yachtsman two years in a row.

‘You’d better go home and change, dear, you wouldn’t want to catch a chill now,’ Mrs Cookson said, and Jane and Phoebe made their escape.

Jane was thankful that her father had already left to meet his mates and the house was deserted.

‘What will you tell him about that?’ Phoebe nodded at the chafe marks around Jane’s throat.

‘I’ll think of a story,’ Jane said vaguely, ‘an accident with a skipping rope or something. I won’t get Lofty into trouble, it wasn’t his fault.’

When she’d changed, they sat on the little bench beside the vegetable garden.

‘Nobody knows what happened except us.’ It was Phoebe who broke the silence. ‘They saw it, Billy-boy and Maude and probably dozens of others. But nobody knows what happened.’ It was a sobering thought.

‘What did happen, Phoebe?’

‘You nearly drowned, that’s what happened.’

‘I did drown,’ Jane said, ‘and you saved me.’

‘It was Lofty who did the lifesaving, he got you breathing.’

Jane shook her head. ‘I’d drowned before that. And you pulled me back.’

‘I held on to your hand, that’s all.’

‘No it’s not. There was more than that.’ Jane wondered how she could explain to Phoebe the experience she’d had. The drifting feeling, the certain knowledge that she was floating away to another place. And then the knowledge that Phoebe had brought her back. ‘There was much, much more than that.’

‘Yes,’ Phoebe said. ‘I know.’ And Jane realised there was no need for explanation, just as there was no answer to what had happened.

That night, along with hundreds of others gathered on the recreation ground, Jane and Phoebe watched the procession of illuminated boats parade down the creek. It was the highlight of the regatta. They watched the bonfire on Cams Point across the water, and the firework display, the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ of the crowd echoing about them as each fresh spectacle lit up the sky.

As they watched, Jane felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude that she was alive to see it, and beside her she felt Phoebe take her hand. They turned to look at each other. Phoebe knew what she was thinking. Jane had died and come back to life and Phoebe had been with her the whole time. Phoebe had shared in her death, and their lives were now forever linked. They stood side by side holding hands, and together they looked up at the fireworks.