The Kashmir Shawl. Rosie Thomas

      Praise for Rosie Thomas:

      ‘Rosie Thomas writes with beautiful, effortless prose, and shows a rare compassion and a real understanding of the nature of love’

       The Times

      ‘Honest and absorbing, Rosie Thomas mixes the bitter and the hopeful with the knowledge that the human heart is far more complicated than any rule suggests’

       Mail on Sunday

      ‘A master storyteller’

       Cosmopolitan

      ‘Thomas’s novels are beautifully written. This one is a treat’

       Marie Claire

      ‘A lush and sweeping voyage of self-discovery’

      Eithne Farry, Daily Mail

      ‘Prepare to be dazzled … an epic tale of sisterhood and betrayal’

       Company

      ‘Heart-rending and beautifully written … I read it in one delicious go, tears pouring down my face. You cannot fail to be moved’

      Emma Lee-Potter, Express

      ‘A terrific book, beautifully written … questions about identity, belonging, infidelity, dying and forgiveness make this a very moving study of the human heart’

       Australian Women’s Weekly

      Dedication

      For my father

      The mountain sheep are sweeter,

      But the valley sheep are fatter;

      We therefore deemed it meeter

      To carry off the latter.

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Copyright

       Praise for Rosie Thomas

      Dedication

      One

      Two

      Three

      Four

      Five

      Six

      Seven

      Eight

      Nine

      ‘Zahra’s Shawl’

      Ten

      Eleven

      Twelve

      Thirteen

      Fourteen

      Fifteen

      Sixteen

      Seventeen

      Eighteen

      Nineteen

      Acknowledgements

       Keep Reading …

      About the Author

      Also by Rosie Thomas

      About the Publisher

      ONE

      Mair made the discovery on the last day at home in the old house.

      The three of them were upstairs in their father’s bedroom. They had come together for the melancholy business of sorting and clearing their parents’ furniture and possessions, before closing up the house for the last time and handing over the keys to the estate agent. It was the end of May and the lambs had just been taken away to market. Out on the hill the sheep were bleating wildly, loud, incessant and bewildered cries that were carried in with the scent of spring grass.

      Mair had made a pot of tea and laid a tray to carry upstairs to her sister Eirlys. Their brother Dylan came behind her, ducking as he had had to do from the age of thirteen in order to avoid hitting his head on the low beam on the landing.

      Eirlys’s energy was prodigious, as always. The floor of the bedroom was squared with neat piles of blankets and pillows, towers of labelled boxes, crackling black bags. She stood at the foot of the bed, resting a clipboard on the bedpost and frowning as she scribbled amendments to one of her lists. With the addition of a white coat and a retinue of underlings, she could easily have been on one of her ward rounds.

      ‘Lovely,’ she murmured, when she saw the tea. ‘Don’t put it down there,’ she added.

      Dylan took a cup and wedged himself on the windowsill. He was blocking the light and Eirlys flicked an eyebrow at him. ‘Drink your tea,’ he said mildly. ‘Go mad, have a biscuit as well.’

      Mair sat down on the bed. The ancient pink electric blanket was still stretched from corner to corner, and she thought of the weeks of her father’s last illness when she had come home to the valley to nurse him, as best she could, and to keep him company. They had enjoyed long, rambling conversations about the past and the people her father had once known.

      ‘Did I ever tell you about Billy Jones, the auctioneer?’