MISSING YOU ALREADY


Pauline McLynn


At a remote railway station in Norfolk,
Kitty Fulton runs the ticket office. Nothing gives her
more pleasure than to reunite lost possessions with their
rightful owners, but it is an experience that remains elusive
in her own world. With each passing day her mothers
Alzheimer's pulls them further and further apart, then a series
of extraordinary events challenges Kitty's notions of duty and fidelity. In struggling to find the answers, she embarks
on a journey that questions the importance of life and
the way we must all live...


Pauline McLynn grew up in Galway and started acting while
studying History of Art in Dublin. She has played many stage roles, but shot to fame as the inimitable Mrs Doyle in Father
Ted. Her other television work includes Aristocrats and Brenner, Bird and Fortune and, most recently, the hugely
popular comedy series jam and Jerusalem. Pauline has read
several Books at Bedtime and her appearances on cinema
screens include Angela's Ashes, Quills, Gypo, Heidi and An
Everlasting Piece. Pauline has contributed to Girls' Night In, in aid of War Child, Magic, in aid of One Parent Families, Moments, in aid of Tsunami Relief and the serial Irish novel Yeats Is Dead, in aid of Amnesty International. She has
written three extremely successful comic novels featuring
Dublin private detective Leo Street, Something for the
Weekend, Better than a Rest and Right on Time, and the
highly acclaimed novels, The Woman on the Bus, Summer
in the City and Bright Lights and Promises.

Praise for Missing You Already:

'McLynn speaks from the heart when she lays bare the truth
of Alzheimer's: her descriptions of the ruthless and irreverent
onset and the consequences for Kitty and May are so
beautifully drawn, rallying as they do between hope, despair,
acceptance and back again that they had me gulping back
tears of sorrow and horror. In Missing You Already, McLynn
bravely tackles some serious subjects with sensitivity, honesty
and intelligence. It is an insightful and ultimately uplifting
novel from a talented writer'	Irish Times

'Be prepared for a rollercoaster of emotions that will
have you reaching for the Kleenex A fantastic read'
RTE Guide
Praise for Pauline McLynn's previous novels:

'A gripping, life-enhancing novel. . . McLynn is a writer
who deserves to be applauded for her own voice'
Irish Times

The main characters are multi-faceted and fascinating. . .
McLynn doesn't turn their feelings into cliches but, instead, deals compassionately and realistically with sensitive, complex
issues'	Ireland on Sunday

'A deeply moving story. The Irish community is evoked in
wonderfully lyrical passages. She is a gifted storyteller'
Sunday Express

'A talented writer . . . Her real strength is her complex characterisation. The intimacies and distances within family
relationships are illustrated in touching detail, and you
really feel for the characters in all their insecurities. An
engaging and rewarding read'	Irish Mail on Sunday

This talented actress/comedian has found the right literary area to shine in'	The Bookseller

'The writing is crisp and direct... beautifully complex'
Evening Herald, Dublin

There's a serious message here, and McLynn delivers it with
some style'	Daily Mirror

'Acute snap-shots of lives illustrating the extraordinary
suffering of ordinary people . . . full of engaging characters
with just the right amount of redemption' Sunday Tribune

By Pauline McLynn

Something for the Weekend
Better than a Rest
Right on Time
The Woman on the Bus
Summer in the City
Bright Lights and Promises
Missing You Already
PAULINE
MCLYNN

Missing You
Already

headline review
Copyright © 2009 Pauline McLynn


The right of Pauline McLynn to be identified as the Author of

the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.


First published in 2009 by HEADLINE REVIEW
An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP


First published in paperback in 2009 by HEADLINE REVIEW
An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP


Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this

publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in

any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of

the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in

accordance with the terms of licences issued by the

Copyright Licensing Agency.


Excerpt from 'Ars Poetica', from COLLECTED POEMS 1917-1982

by Archibald MacLeish. Reprinted by permission of Houghton

Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved.


Excerpt from Private Lives by Noel Coward reprinted

by permission of Methuen Drama, an imprint of

A & C Black Publishers Ltd.


All characters in this publication are fictitious

and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.


Cataloguing in Publication Data is
available from the British Library


ISBN 978 0 7553 4340 9


Typeset in New Caledonia by Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Grangemouth, Stirlingshire


Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives pic


Headline's policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and

recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable

forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected

to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.


HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

An Hachette UK company
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH


www.headline.co.uk
www.hachetteHvre.co.uk
For my mother
Sheila

and in memory of my father
Padraig

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I have a great fear of acknowledgements, and usually avoid
them, as I am always certain I will forget someone whose
input was vital. Therefore, first, I say a far too general and
inadequate thank you to all who helped in the making of
this book. I have rarely encountered such generosity of detail
and emotion. I am particularly indebted to Darragh Kelly,
Owen Roe, Rosie Cavaliero, Salima Saxton and Carl Saxton
Pizzie, Sue Johnston, Kate Hoban and Andrea Henry. I hope
I have done some justice to you and yours. And, as always,
Clare Foss") Richard Cook and Faith have been of
inestimable help. No words can adequately express my
gratitude to you all.
ONE



Pennick is on the way to somewhere else. People pass through
and think it's as cute as it seems. They see the main street,
which has a clutch of Olde buildings, and a few garish window
boxes in summer. The purists say it's in Norfolk, and it probably
is as it's flat enough, for one thing, but its position near
the county lines of both Cambridgeshire and Lincolnshire
makes it susceptible to getting lost in the geography of the
area. You know those romantic scenes in films where characters
stand on a mountain and say, 'Look, you can see three
counties from here,' and everything is wonderful? That's how
it is somewhere else, not here. Occasionally, a rock star thinks
he's discovered the last unspoiled bit of England and buys a
crumbling pile down a meandering gravel lane, but then gets
driven to more drink and drugs by sheer isolation of the place
and the fact that he's trapped in it when it floods.

Pennick doesn't seem part of anything but Its own ordinariness.
Perhaps the geographical ambiguity is contagious and
we natives are unsure who or what we are, or should be. We're
pretty good at misery and feeling hard done by, if we have
any sense at all. Mostly we're stoics, accepting what can't
be altered. After all, this place was fashioned long before
any of us got our hands on it and change comes slowly in
these parts. I've lived here all my life and hate it as much
as anyone has a right to. Which is also to say that I love it.
Love has such a crooked logic that nothing about it should
ever surprise us. And so Pennick is home to me and I'll
defend it to the death, which action is unlikely to be required.

I work at the railway station, running the office. Most
trains keep on keepin' on down the line and don't bother
themselves with us or we with them, I guess you could say.
To be honest, we're little more than a junction with lines
going to far more interesting places. A few services have to
stop, for passengers to make other connections or some
locals to return after unsuccessful attempts to escape.

I'm being harsh, I know, but I'm allowed. Pennick's my
hometown. This is like having a go at family, it's expected,
par for the course. And if I truly hated it, I'd've left it long
ago. Or at least I assume I would. That sort of thinking conjecture,
Mum would have called it - is useless anyway.
The what-ifs. I'm going nowhere. I deal in reality these days
and it's not very pretty most of the time.

I'm waiting for my holiday cover to arrive so that I can
show her the ropes of the station office. I take the fallow time
to review the items on my special shelves. Aside from a whole
section at the back of the office devoted to forgotten umbrellas,
I've got a walking stick, three pairs of spectacles (one with
prescription sun lenses), a lunchbox (which I have relieved of
its banana sandwich and juice carton), a jolly-looking turquoise
windcheater, and a Busy Lizzie plant up front. Its not bad,
only seven items. Sometimes the shelves groan under the
forgotten and misplaced pieces of other peoples lives. There
isn't a peak season for being lost or found, except in the case
of umbrellas, or at least if there is, I haven't spotted one. It's
a constant, but sometimes there's a little more lost in the
world. I like to help things be found.
People forget things every day. They miss their stop.
They leave an extra bag on the train seat or resting by
them on the station platform bench. Travelling is stressful,
although this doesn't fully explain the way some of the
townspeople's bits and bobs keep turning up here. Pennick
is big enough for a police station but not a Marks and
Spencer. People here dislike the criminal taint of handing
in an article to the cops, as if they might be suspected of
coming into it illegally or through some other unsavoury
activity. So impromptu Lost Property departments are
springing up everywhere. I know Longley's the newsagent's
has one, for instance, ditto Springfield Medical Centre and
the Frog and Firkin, though the latter usually re-homes
items promptly when its customers sober up. I think they
once put a hen up for a weekend because the farmer
thought it had flown away. He recognised it when he came
back the following Monday, complaining about how you
couldn't get faithful stock any more.
The Springfield gets a surprising number of medical aids
left behind, things that are designed to help people cope
and perhaps were even what they came in for in the first
place. You have to wonder if we aren't a hell of a lot more
adaptable than we think, us humans, and just prone to
cosseting ourselves needlessly a lot of the time. That said,
they found a false leg in the car park once which was very
quickly reclaimed, I hear. Happy reunions are what we aim
for, at best. At worst, it's a shelfful of knick-knacks, trapping
dust and taunting me with unfulfilled promise.
The station did once have a formal Lost Property office,
in the far-off glory days of rail travel, when rail workers had
recognisable uniforms and there were porters on the platforms
wearing peaked hats. With time, and the erosion of
old travelling decencies, the staff was streamlined as were
the posts. Lost Property and Left Luggage merged then disappeared,
to be replaced only by a general remit to look
after those who pass through our hands here each day.
Dan is the Station Master and I have known him since I
was a kid. He was at the root of me coming to work here.
I was drifting at the time. He didn't need a nine-to-fiver just
then but somehow he wangled the budget for it and here I
am. He deals with the upkeep of the station, with ushering
on the local departures, and keeps things in order for the
many trains that simply whizz past without a by-your-leave.
I look after the administrative side: ticket sales, paperwork,
phone enquiries and lost property.
We're not the only staff here. Nights are looked after by
Benny, who likes the dark and dislikes people so the shift is
perfect for him: his dream job. He charts the ghostly goods
trains travelling in the down time, some carrying succour to
supermarkets, some full of other poisons, the waste shunted
from place to place as if to keep it moving will somehow
make it invisible or matter less. There's a small band of
contract cleaners who come in daily to keep the place as spruce
as it can ever look. Sometimes they find used hypodermics
in the loos, proof that we're as poisoned a backwater as
anywhere else. And then there's Roly, the biggest cat I have
ever encountered. He strolled in some years ago, decided
he liked the set-up and stayed. He's the ratter and mouser
and keeps to his own schedule. In more inclement weather,
he'll choose a spot in my office and snooze; mostly he prefers
the sheds out by the sidings. He delivers gifts for the pantry
as thanks for the shop-bought and homemade cat food he
gets in the office. I have become used to encountering dead
rats on the doorstep, though not quite inured to it, and must
praise him if he's still around when I see them. He's big on
manners like that.
The railway has played a major part in my life. As kids
we took the train to school in Fetchley, twelve minutes
up the line. 'We' was Daniel, Donna and I: the Three
Amigos, Three Musketeers. There were other neighbourhood
children, friends even, but they were peripheral to us. We
three might as well have been siblings. As it is, I am the
lone only-child of our posse but, even though the others
had some each, we meant more to one another than any
brother or sister. We took one another for granted, and
we took the railway for granted too. We needed it, it was
there, we used it, attaching no great importance to it at
the time. But it ran in our blood all the same.
Donna and I went to the Benedictine Girls' School and
Daniel attended Farnworth College. They were within spitting
distance of one another, a fact that the boys were keen
on proving regularly during term-time. Richard Crabtree
once got Sister Hilda's habit by accident as she floated
through the playground. She was away with her many saints
and never noticed the creamy gob on her long, black skirt.
It was disgusting but it set a new standard and thereafter
to hit a nun without being caught was all any Farnworth
boy longed for. It was only a shame that Punk was long
dead by then. We could have put Norfolk on the map.
The schoolkids still travel by train. It's the part of the day
I like most: the jostling, the energy, the hope. I miss that
during the holidays, though lots of the kids are still around
and get out of town to the sea as much as possible, to escape
the drear flatline of Pennick. That goes for winter as well as
summer. Some aim for glory and get as far as Norwich before
being recalled. It gives them a taste, though, and if they're
lucky they'll get out altogether and go to college.
I didn't. For some reason, I wasn't cut out for it. It's
strange to some because I am the product of two academically
bright people but have none of that sort of mental alacrity.
It's not something I've ever lost sleep over. I didn't care
enough about it then, and I still don't. Anyhow, I see similar
things in other lives. There are kids out there born to plain
looking parents who inherit some rogue beauty gene and are
blessed with movie-star looks. Equally I have seen the ultra
plain kids of beautiful parents, children who display the worst
of both parents' features. Those are the genetic breaks and
not scoring brains was mine.
My name is Kitty Fulton.

Margo slumped on the uncomfortable chair listening to Kitty
explain the workings of the office. She was not particularly
interested but this job was only temporary and she needed the
money. She might have shifted to a more viable pose, probably
should have, but couldn't get the will together for that.
She studied her nails instead, wondering what colour to choose
next. There was a silence and she realised that she was required
to answer something, or perhaps comment on what had gone
before. Kitty was smiling which looked vaguely condescending
to Margo but she didn't want to get kicked out in spite of the
fact that her uncle was the one in charge and had said she
could fill in while Kitty was on her holiday, so that was a
done deal as far as Margo was concerned. She rearranged her
eyebrows to acknowledge that she was still paying attention.
'So, do they break off when you type? Kitty asked, referring
to her bright pink false nails.
'Nah.'
If Kitty expected more she didn't get it. Margo had no
wish to be drawn out by an old person. I'm only in my
thirties, Kitty wanted to shout, knowing that any such explanation
would appear irredeemably uncool. 'Any questions?'
'Will this be cash?'
'That's for your uncle to say'
Margo grunted.
'Is that all?'
Did Margo detect an edge there? Was she supposed to
have some hugely intelligent question to ask about the
drudgery that went on here? She felt she'd better ask something,
to keep the older woman happy.
'What's with the Muster Point signs?'
Kitty frowned. 'I think they're self-explanatory, surely?'
The girl's mouth took a down-turn as if she had smelled
a bad odour. 'Yeah?'
'Dan saw one somewhere and decided he liked the sound
of it.'
Margo shook her head in sadness and pity.
'The lost art of mustering,' Kitty said. 'It amuses him.'
A vision of her Uncle Dan grinning at something so lame
had Margo shivering. 'State-of-the-art weird,' she declared.
Margo's gaze shifted to the station concourse, which she
had been half keeping watch over through the main window
of the small office. Fred Rowland and his mates were kicking
an empty can around and waiting for the 16.08 to FetchleyonSea.
Kitty followed the direction of the girl's eyes. She
saw a greasy gang of yobs who couldn't help making twits
of themselves.
'He's quite attractive,' she conceded, in the face of Margo's
pained and adoring expression.
'Yeah, well,' came the reply, which marked an end to their
conversation, apparently.

Kitty walked the familiar route home along a stretch of
railway line and in through the allotments. Her own plot was
here, close to Dans. She always stopped to check on it,
however cursory this might be. Today, tiny spiders floated
from the trees on gossamer threads. They were supposed to
represent money or a windfall and, whereas that was always handy, there were a lot of things money simply could not
buy for Kitty any more. The sky still showed some daytime
blue. Soon, an extra hour would be given for a longer night's
sleep and they would be plunged into months of darkness
that the stolen hour could never make up for. The air was
crisp with the promise of the first frost and all around allotment
owners were harvesting. Shivering, Kitty pulled her
cardigan close about her. Her mother had knitted it a decade
before and it was always a comfort to wear. She regarded it
as a shield, sometimes, its elaborate Fair Isle pattern dated
out resonant and, above all, safe. It stood for something.
It meant the past, and there were times now when Kitty felt
that was all she had.
Her allotment neighbour, Jed, was attending to a patch
of his beloved onions. He was of another century in outlook
as well as language, his Broad Norfolk scattered with words
and phrases little used in the modern parlance. Kitty asked
how he was and he gave her his usual 'fair ter middlin'. Jed
could tell the weather from a sniff of the wind. And sometimes
he'd declare it, with no less accuracy, according to how
his cats faced the window or fire or a bowl of milk.
'Nip in thet air,' he told her. 'Frost's com'n, dew yew arst
me.' He was wearing his fingerless gloves in preparation for
the cold. Even through the wool Kitty saw the carbuncular
swellings of his arthritis. His long-dead wife had knitted those
mitts, as he often reminded her. They were both held
together, Jed and Kitty, through the medium of craft, she
thought. Jed wore a shop-bought, woollen hat but it stopped
short on his head and his ears were livid with the chill. She
wondered if he would wear a pair of ear-muffs if she got
him some. She'd need an occasion, like his birthday or
Christmas.
His bushy grey eyebrows met. Ter rum friend was 'ere,
gorpin at yer shud.' He nodded a few times. 'There's suffin
savage 'bout that 'un.'
She didn't need to think hard to know whom he was talking
about. 'You mean Donna?'
'Crockin' then she were.'
Crying? This was not good.
'Ollust be cairfl thair,' he advised, nodding as if he had
seen it all before. He probably had. She wouldn't have been
surprised to discover that Jed was three hundred years old.
Kitty thought, He's warning me.
'Thank you,' she said. 'I appreciate that.'
He shrugged. 'Jest wantet ter tell yew.' He turned away.
'I shall hatter keep a' dewin here. No time for mardlin.'

My journey home takes me past the graveyards, old and new.
A fresh plot is gaping, ready to take the latest inhabitant allocated it from the town. Its probably someone I know.
Pennick is small enough for everyone at least to have heard
mention of the names of the other people who live here.
I think back to my conversation with Jed and remember
how Dan adopted the old man's pronunciation of Pennick
when we were young. He'd declare that we lived in a town
called Panic. It always seemed ludicrously funny that such
a sleepy place would ever sound so racy.
I hear Mum's voice as I come through the door. It's good
to know she's home and safe. She threw a cup of hot tea at
me this morning. She missed, but that's hardly the point.
Perhaps I annoyed her into flinging the cup but I doubt it.
Even so, it's the thin end of some wedge and will have to
be discouraged. She is practising her words. Mr Bishop wants
her to do Bs on her next visit and she'll have a head start if
she thinks of beginning with his name. He assigns the letter
at random so that we can never second guess what he'll
choose next. My theory is that she practises a lot in the hope
that more than she'd be expected to remember might become
lodged in her head and have to come out if she wills it. She
is still an incredibly determined woman. Happily, she won't
have to make sentences using only these words. That would
be a call too far.
'Bound. Bale. Bland.'
These are all good. She is having a good day. She is
beaming when I enter the kitchen. I must tell her that:
Beaming.
'Beauty,' she says, looking me in the eye and I choose to
believe it is deliberate, a gift to me. (Believe, another B - its
an expressive letter, this.)
'Billy.' She pauses. It's a name but at least follows the
B rule. She runs Backer and Bike together and it makes her
smile. I think there's a story attached but, if there is, she
doesn't share it. 'Bite. Bored. Bla . . . bla . . . bla . . .' she's
getting stuck '. . . black.' Its a B and fully formed, so well
done. I add 'sheep' quickly to make a joke and ease over her
hesitation, and we laugh although it's not that funny. We have
to keep things light and happy. There is no room here for
Bleak or its cousins. They will join us in time. But not yet.
But. That's a handy one. It keeps a situation current,
ongoing. There is still some wriggle room with a But. It's an
invitation for more of whatever you need to get by. By and
Getting are what we are about now.
I see the shopping basket in the kitchen and I know she
has done her chore for the day. The list is still inside and
each item is ticked off. I begin to check them myself, casually
so she won't notice, looking in the cupboards to see that
they are put away properly. Although the list said cucumber
she has bought a courgette, but never mind: it's an easy
mistake to make. I flick the switch on the kettle and ask
Mum if she'd like some tea. She looks puzzled. 'I think I've
had some,' she says, and consults her notebook. 'Yes,' she
confirms. 'Says here I enjoyed it too.'
'Good. Would you like some more?'
'Maybe not, dear. In case I didn't go to the loo last time.'
She is careful not to give her body any further chance to
betray her.
I check the main diary and see that Hannah, a neighbour,
has been in and has written that all was well today. Mum had
a sandwich for lunch, then went on an outing with her support
group to paint landscapes. I don't see any evidence of that
but I'll ask in a while. I open the fridge door to get the milk
and notice the hairdryer on the bottom shelf. When I look
back I see Mum about to pour tea into an upside-down mug,
knowing there is something wrong in this picture but
wondering what it is. I rush to take the pot from her before
she scalds herself. She will be sixty years old next January.

our house, number 15, The Cottages, is small, unremarkable,
red brick, in a terrace of many others. Evidence of the
way we live is everywhere. The Post-its on the wall by the
front door remind us about our keys. In this regard I am as
bad as Mum for forgetting so I'll share responsibility for
those. The Post-its are also all over the back of the door
should any distraction occur between picking the keys up
and heading out. Again, those could be meant for me. The
hall table has little areas marked out for keys, umbrellas,
gloves; if there's a gap, it means the system isn't being adhered
to. Important numbers are clearly displayed by the telephone.
We used to have a portable handset but it kept getting
misplaced so we're back to the traditional one attached to
the cradle now.
A visitor might take in the sheer volume of thrillers and
detective books on our many sets of shelves. Pieces of, largely
abandoned, knitting spill from some bags on the floor, none
terribly coherent in pattern but the colours are vivid and
welcoming. I am forever threatening to feng shui the lot,
more because I realise that clutter presents hazards for Mum
than from any inclination to find money corners to leave free
or to keep invisible energies flowing throughout the space.
I suppose it's all a lot of old cobblers, especially to people
like ourselves with huger issues to deal with. It's not a streamlined
or neat house, then, but neither is it in total chaos,
which is a minor wonder given that we're not always up to
keeping it in order. There is a constant soundtrack, of radio
or television or stereo, especially during daytime hours. I try
to keep it to a gentle level so that if Mum found herself at
some sort of disadvantage, she wouldn't be further confused

by the noise.
My mother May is a sprightly Irishwoman with naturally
dark hair and blue eyes. A Celt, she would say, if she remembered
to claim it. I am dark also but hazel eyed. We're both
of medium height and have no remarkable distinguishing
features that I am aware of. You would pass us on the street
and not take a second glance, I think.
The garden out back is testament to Mum's green fingers.
She began it many years ago. It's a riot of colour in summer
and a symphony of structure in winter. 'Plant well,' she told
me, 'and the garden does the work for you.' In the late
September light, thistle tops stand ready to catch snow and
frost, shrubs have been clipped to add pleasing shapes and
a small rowan tree holds red berries to cheer the birds
along.
Whenever we are at home the door is kept on the latch
and neighbours come and go regularly. They always have,
but make sure to now. Spare sets of keys reside in about ten
houses around 15, The Cottages so there is never a problem
with anyone gaining entry should they need to.
At face value the picture is one of rumpled domestic
harmony, and often that's true of the little house. It might
even look regular or humdrum but for the Post-its. Some
are rectangular yellow, some square and blue, and some
recent pink additions are heart-shaped. On the day Mum
took a marker to the plasterwork to write herself a reminder,
I was forced to admit that the writing was now well and truly
on the wall.

It was Dad who first noticed that something was wrong. My
father, Stephen Duke, is the publisher of a small imprint
that specialises in academic tomes and collections of poetry.
That's how he and Mum met and became involved. She
worked as a copy editor for him. Words have always been
her thing, which makes this new situation doubly tragic
for her. He sought me out one day about eight years ago to
ask if she was having her menopause. I asked why, wondering
if this was going to be one of his occasional mini-rants about
how they should never have hooked up and that I was the
only good thing to come of the union, to be followed swiftly
by a denial that there was only one good thing, though I was
assuredly the best thing, and that they simply exasperated
one another and not to mind him letting off steam. But this
time it was a lot less and, in fact, a lot more.
'It's just that it looks as though she's edited that last book
I gave her with a knife and fork,' he explained.
I didn't think much of the remark for a time. They often
had artistic differences. I was pretty sure it was not the
menopause, that was past. Unless it could make a return,
like a hormonal grace note? I asked around and that didn't
seem likely. But Dad was right that she did seem more
distracted than usual. A tad forgetful. She would have to
search for the appropriate word, sure, though actually I didn't
find that bit at all odd. She liked to be precise. As I've said,
words were her thing.
'I can't find the whatchoocallit,' she said one day, her
accent more Irish-sounding than usual. When you've lived
away from the country of your birth for a long time it gets
less pronounced, I think. Now her lilt was emphasised. So
I noticed that. And then she began to cry. 'I can't seem to
find it.' She was desperately upset, a lot more than she should
have been. After all, what could be so important that it would
drive her to tears? Later, I realised that it was the word, not
' the thing, she couldn't locate and that, for her, was an awful
admission. She was frightened by it. We've been frightened
by bigger things since, but on that day it was the worst thing
that had happened to her in a long time and not, as I finally
began to suspect, an isolated incident.
Mum was never the kind to panic easily so she was
obdurately against supposing this was, actually, anything but
a hormonal surge or a symptom of creeping stress. She had
always been a bit scatty about domestic details - bills to be
paid (until she set up direct debits), keys, her purse, the
usual stuff. We muddled along.
Then Mum began to bulk up. She had always been a trim
woman who took care of her appearance. Now she was
inclined to leave a skirt zip undone for comfort. I thought
nothing of it at first, putting it down to the hormonal imbalance
she insisted was at the heart of her problems. There seem to be a lot more food in the house, and a lot more
going to waste for that matter. I found abandoned halves of
sandwiches and baguettes by the many paperbacks she liked
to read. I would tip them into the bin without comment.
Then Mum would ask where her lunch had disappeared to.
It could be ten in the evening by then. I found receipts for
the supermarket; my mother was clearly going once or twice
a day. These featured chocolate that never entered the house,
along with crisps, sweets, popcorn. No wonder she was
packing on the pounds.
'Are you putting on a bit of weight?' I ventured one
evening, but there was no tone that could take the sting off
that remark for a lady who was conscious of how she looked
and I almost held my breath, waiting for the answer.
Mum's eyes narrowed. 'What if I am?'
'Well, I guess, no reason, except that it's hard to shift it
once it goes on and it's bad for your health anyhow.'
'I can't help it if I'm hungry a lot.'
'No.' I didn't know where to go from here. 'Are you hungry
now?' I asked.
I saw my mother check the clock. It read 9.15. We had
eaten our evening meal over an hour before. I noticed her
do some calculations and answer, 'Of course not,' adding,
after a pause, 'it's eight o'clock,' for good measure. It was
then that I knew two things: one, that Mum didn't remember
eating and, two, that she was hiding a lot more from me.
The idea that my mother was lying to me on a regular basis
made my heart shift in my chest. She'd never lied to me,
aside from about Santa Claus (which was no big deal when the truth emerged as the gifts kept coming) and saying that
Granny had gone to heaven. I had been taken 'home' to Ireland to meet Granny on a few occasions and, young as I
was, even I knew that the malevolent old crone would be
welcome in no god's hereafter. Now my mum was applying
subterfuge to exclude me. My guts wrenched.
We didn't have pudding,' she said. Her voice was high
with a mixture of longing and providing an excuse for wanting
more, or anything at all. It was also wily, a new nuance to
her speech.
We rarely ate dessert at home. It was time to act.

I think life gives us time to digest news, particularly when
its bad. And the medical profession is no different. It has
to be like that, otherwise hospitals and surgeries would sink
under the weight of tears and anguish and no one would
be cured, least of all the curable. We have to be given a
chance to digest the facts, as far as they can be known.
Even death at close quarters slows down our perception
so we can get past the first awful fact and prepare ourselves for the grief that we can see approaching, in slow motion but on its way nonetheless.
So it was when it came to my mothers diagnosis. We were drip-fed facts, such as they were and are. Even so, there is no absolutely certain way that her condition can be called what we all feel it is. A slew of tests relegated other
dementias. When she's dead they may take a slice of her
brain and examine it and say, 'Yes, May Fulton had
Alzheimer's Disease,' though we all know that to be probable
right now. However, only her poor addled mind can
give the definitive proof and it's too invasive to do that while
she's still alive. She is young to be affected, as mostly its
an increasingly elderly population who present with it. I've
heard it called Old Timers a lot. But it's not a discriminating
disease and will take whomever it pleases, just to show it
can, I sometimes believe.
Trying to convince her to see a doctor in the first place
was arguably the hardest part. She did seem perfectly hale,
other than being mithered. In fact, with the weight she'd
gained, she looked to be blooming. She argued and prevaricated
but eventually gave in. We had to know, to act, and
I'm so glad we did as I think it has bought us extra time.
There is nothing so satisfying as snatching back years that
the disease might have denied us.
Mum's mind is tangled. Bit by bit, proteins made by her
own system are strangling her brain and killing it. All of her
physical abilities in general are being impaired to some
degree, hijacked by this sneaking disease. We've had the best
of the early medication and that returned her to near
normality for a long time. We almost felt we were beating
the thing for a while, which was cocky and inaccurate. What
the drugs did was work on the symptoms not the disease
itself, boosting the brain's supply of neurotransmitters while
unable to rid her of the underlying damage. I hear of kids stealing the stuff to take before exams so that they'll enhance
their brain capacity. It's a mad but strangely practical thing
to do, I guess, and no real surprise.
After all, people are injecting botox, a bona-fide poison,
into themselves to erase their frown lines. That came from someone noticing there was a lucrative side-effect in the medical response to a debilitating condition. I'll bet there's some boffin in the laboratory of a large cosmetics firm right now trying to find the right ratio of flesh-eating disease to cream so that we can smear ourselves with something that
will deal with cellulite. It's all a matter of degree.
As for Alzheimer's sufferers, there's always the hope of a
general cure in the long term. Though not for us, as it
happens. Mum is too far gone for that. But we make the
most of what we have. And it's a good most.
Mostly.
TWO


The box of ashes was a first for the station.

'No one has ever left a dead relative before,' Dan said.

'It could be a cat or a dog, even a horse,' Kitty argued.

'That's hardly likely if it's from Jensen's the undertakers,' Dan pointed out. 'They only deal in human beings, unless
they've branched out in the last day or two.'

'How could anyone forget one of their own, even if they aren't exactly flesh and blood any more?'

The box was dark and lacquered and bore no name aside from Jensen's - and chances were it wasn't one of that family or else all faith put in their abilities to run their business had been misplaced. Kitty opened her ledger and entered the find, with the date and time it was taken in and a short description.

'Should we look inside?' Dan asked.

'Doesn't seem right to.'

Don't think the occupant will mind.'
'It might be disrespectful.'
'Fair enough. Have you ever seen human ashes?'
'No. I heard they're stranger than you'd think, though.
Denser. Greyer. Gritty.'
'What will you do now, Miss Marple?'
Kitty loved the detection angle of this sideshoot of her
job. 'Obviously I'll ring Jensen's and see if anyone's missing
their box or urn or whatever they call it.'
'Box, I'd say.'
'Doesn't seem enough, does it? Box? Urn is better, surely?'
'Not an urn, though.'
'No. It's definitely a box, all right. A handsome one.'

They gazed at it some more before Dan said he should
go and check on the 10.12 to Shrifley. Then there would
be a run through to Norwich that he would probably stand
on platform two to wave to. He usually did. That was the
boy in him still, she thought. Kitty watched his broad back
as he walked towards the door. He was wearing his uniform
jacket with its fluorescent yellow stripes. He was proud of
the words 'Station Manager' displayed on it. He needed a
haircut but she liked the way his wavy hair touched the
collar.
'Donna was up at my allotment last evening. Jed saw her.
She was gone by the time I got there.'
He stopped, didn't really turn around but inclined his
head three quarters back to her. 'Fuck,' he whispered.
Dan moved into the next street from us the summer I turned
five. I saw the removals truck pull up, followed by a ear
packed with him and his family and the things that couldn't
be squeezed into the more substantial vehicle. I had never
seen such a head of red curls before and I ran over to touch
them without any thought that he was a stranger. He laughed
into my face and I fell headlong for him. 'I love you,' I said,
before running to tell Mum that the new neighbours we had
been expecting were here and marvellous beyond words. I
really didn't have anything else to shout but, 'They're here,
they're here. He has wed hair. WED!' I had a problem with
my r's then. I've had a problem with him since.

I finish the petty cash reconciliation, a chore that always
leaves me feeling dissatisfied. I hate the way it eats up so
much time for so little result. Now I feel like a reward.
There's no chocolate in the office tin, which means either
Dan or Benny has been raiding it again, so it looks like a
quick run through the crossword will have to do. I'm tempted
to try to fill it with random words, to see if I can make them
all match up. This is a lot harder than it sounds. Words are
tricky customers.
Mum and I have always been partial to a game of Scrabble.
We are vicious at play. I learned early on that it was all very
well to want to make interesting words on the board but you had to rack up the scores too or face ruin. Mum kept a
dictionary of obscure terms handy in case of disputes, of
which there were many. The game might have been an
indicator of her vocabulary loss if we hadn't already had
decades of weird spellings. 'Ba' appeared after her diagnosis
but I didn't bat an eyelid, having seen it many times before
and knowing it to be the Egyptian word for soul. 'Xu' is a
Vietnamese unit of money, and her use of it might be coincidence
or not. She knows to reach for the dictionary no
matter what. At least she has always enjoyed the games even
if I am allowing some entire rubbish through now. It's all
about her happiness.
I tried puzzles to keep my own noggin ticking over but
they weren't for me. I quite liked the logic of Sudoku, but
bored of it quickly. I caught a programme on the television
recently about very old people and they all said that the
brain was the main thing you had to keep stimulated. It was
a sad piece. Nearly all of them were at a loss to know why
they were still here, and most didn't particularly want to be.
All of their friends and a lot of their families were dead and
they were trapped within an ancient casing. One woman
kept referring to the damn' chair she was stuck in.
As much as I quite like puzzles, I hate magic or what
passes for magic on television and variety shows. I always
want to roar, 'It's nothing but trickery.' That sort of magic is
an illusion, a deliberate obfuscating of facts and techniques
to fool us. I also get very agitated when I don't know how
these so-called magicians are doing their trick. I need to
understand, not presume. I cannot give blind faith and I have
lost any sense of wonder that might permit me the indulgence
of magic. I would like to think there is real magic still
out there, of a kind that can never be explained away. But
I have no time for sly trickery now.

Kitty phoned Jensen's the undertaker's in Norwich to ask
about the shiny box full of ashes. As helpful as the receptionist
tried to be, she could shed no light on who might
now be in Kitty's care. 'Cremation is a very popular choice
nowadays,' she intoned. 'It's what I want for myself.' There
was an attempt at a knowing chuckle here that came out
rather smugly on Kitty's end of the line. 'And people don't
always call to collect immediately the ashes are back with
us. This package could belong to a number of people and
I'm sure you'll understand that I cannot give you clients'
names over the phone.'
'Would you email them to me, then, or post them?'
'Er . . . no, that would not be acceptable either, I'm afraid.'
'How am I to trace the owner then?' Kitty asked.
The answer was delivered with such emphasis, such precision,
that Kitty was left in no doubt it had been unreasonable
of her to ask in the first place. 'All I can do for you, Miss . .. ?'
'Fulton.'
'Quite. All I can do is wait until the unfortunate who has
misplaced their dear departed gets in contact with me, and
then I can forward your details to them.'
The superior tone got to Kitty. 'This is not exactly
doctor--patient confidentiality we're talking about here,'
she pointed out.
'In all my years in this heartbreaking business,' the faceless,
and increasingly annoying, woman began again, 'I hope
I have never - and I repeat, never - been insensitive to a
clients needs. I cannot have you, a stranger, upsetting them
at this delicate time by calling up out of the blue while their
grief may have returned in all its raw manifestation.'
Oh, shut up, you pompous old bag, Kitty wanted to shout.
Instead she took a breath and said, 'Surely it would be more
sensitive to let me help track down whoever is responsible
for this box, to reunite them with their relation?'
'Perhaps you might simply return the item to us?'
That cloying suggestion was never going to fly, not on
Kitty's watch. 'The item is now the property of the railway
and here it will stay until it is claimed. Thank you so much
for your valuable time and good day.'
'Good day?' Kitty whispered to herself afterwards. Where
in hell had that come from? All the same, she had handled
the call badly and now had no lead to follow up. This item was well beyond a lost umbrella in importance and she felt
honour bound to reunite it with its owner. If anyone could
ever be said to own another person, that is, ashes or not.
Come to that, how could anyone lose so unusual a package?
Ashes in a box weren't exactly an everyday package to be
toting, were they?
She'd had brushes with beautiful finds before, in this line
of her work, and been obliged to stop herself from getting
overly protective of them or inventing stories about them
that could never be matched by reality. A charming mother-of-pearl
music box had turned up in a basket of sundries
once and she couldn't resist opening it to see the inside and
hear the tune. The tinkling song was both eerie and uplifting.
She'd read and seen enough ghost stories to imagine a darker
scenario, but when she found the hidden drawer with some photographs and a love letter inside she immediately assumed
she was holding in her hands the relics of a great romance.
An octogenarian lady arrived to reclaim the bag the following
day and Kitty couldn't help but confess that she'd found the
secret cache.
'Splendid,' said the woman. 'Saves me the trouble of
working that out.'
Kitty was dismayed. 'So it's not yours?'
'Oh, no. I bought it all as a lot at a car boot sale, hoping
it's of some value when I flog it on. This discovery of yours
might just swing it for me.'
Never assume, Kitty learned. Life is often a lot more basic
than we would like to think.
She popped the lacquered box in pride of place at the
front of her main shelf, patting it twice for comfort as she
settled it in. This one was different, she felt.

I sip herbal tea and wish I had someone to talk to. The
station is in a lull. I could phone Dad but both he and I are
at work and, besides, I don't have anything new to tell him.
Best not waste his time, even if my own is going a-begging
now. Also, I feel odd about making personal calls on company
time. Roly appears and nudges around my legs before fading
away into the shelves. I hear him scratch about a bit then
settle somewhere in the gloom. I am tempted to buy him a
proper bed.
These days I miss conversation the most. I have Dan to
talk to here at the station, sure, and Dad on tap at the end
of the telephone line, but talking to men, however close they
are to you, is not like a good girlie chat. Mum has her limitations
now and although we still communicate a fair deal, it
all depends on how her day is going. Often it's just fractured
reportage of her doings as opposed to a decent account of
this or that. It's also usually in rather basic terms as her mental
grasp on complex issues fades. We used to discuss a whole
range of topics. We'd take one, maybe prompted by the newspaper,
toss it about, chew it over and park it in the corner
for future mauling. In those days we told one another most
things but there are always matters that can only be discussed
with your own generation and, in my case, without a sister
to confide in, Donna was the one who filled that role. Don't
get me wrong, I talk to people every day. I spend most of
my time dealing with the public and colleagues and friends
and neighbours. I'm lost for choice with people to pass the
time of day with. But it's all small talk. I don't have a real
confidante any more.
The last time I spoke to Donna she was uninterested in any of my news. I suppose I can hardly blame her when it's all the same now. Mum and how she's getting on is the main subject of my life, and I wouldn't have it any other way. In the old days, my lack of ambition drove Donna round the bend. I haven't changed much. I love the allotment, our garden, reading books, tending to Mum, worrying about what will become of her, re-homing the items in my Lost and Found. These precious elements in my life mean so much to me. If that's lacking in ambition, so be it. The tag of my herbal tea bears a message from some yogi reading 'Love what is ahead by loving what has come before'. I'll try, Mr Yogi, I'll try.

The Bartletts' house was no bigger than ours but it was packed with people, all the time. At our house there was only Mum and me, and sometimes Dad stayed over, but not regularly on account of him and Mum not being married or together any more. The Bartlett sisters had one chaotically full bedroom, the boys another, and the tiniest was filled with their mother and father's double bed from which issued forth new offspring, each more adored than the last, it seemed. I loved blending in with the family. I wasn't the only other kid from the area subsumed into the workings of place, and extra mouths to feed at mealtimes went unnoticed.
Donna hated having to share so little and so much so many.
'You just love this place 'cos you can go home to yours
afterwards,' she'd often say to me. It was a taunt as well as
a fact. I did love to go home to my mother and our quieter
abode full of books, and to have those things all to myself.
I rarely had friends home, though Donna and Dan were
regular enough visitors. I just about allowed them. I wonder
now if I was bad at sharing or just selfish, but back then that
was too hard to think about so I ignored it and got on with
my life. I was good at ignoring awkward things.
On the day of her tenth birthday Donna was given a comb
and brush set the like of which had never been seen in
Pennick before. It was mock tortoiseshell and no less beautiful
for its fakery. What marked it out above all others was
that a mutual and clever hinge in the handles attached brush
to comb. It was a treasure beyond compare. I sat with Donna
and a gaggle of her sisters and friends on one of the two
sets of bunks in the small bedroom and wondered at its
beauty. Donna alone was allowed to handle the thing, which
was only right. Again and again she went through the routine
of how you pulled away one instrument and combed your
hair then flipped it and brushed. Then, with a snap, it was
closed and neat again. It glowed with genius and desirability.
Donna had the hair to go with it: long, glossy locks of a dull
blond, envied by every girl in the parish.
When they'd finally tired of yet another demonstration of
the brilliance of the contraption, Donnas mother called that
it was time for cake and everyone bundled down the stairs.
All but me.
I couldn't leave the birthday gift, now abandoned on the
coverlet. I knew I was forbidden from touching it but I was
mesmerised. It dared me with its magnificence. I couldn't help myself. I reached out and took it reverently in my trembling
hands. I relished the fabulous object, turning it this
way and that to admire the light on its surface. It was covered
in Donna's greasy fingerprints, but undiminished in my eyes.
Finally I summoned up the courage to open the wonder.
And it snapped in two in my hands.
I let it fall with a small yelp and felt bile rise in my
throat. I shook with terror and uncontrollable fear. I had
destroyed the most precious thing I had ever been close
to. And it didn't belong to me. It was the property of my
Best Friend. I would die for this. Actually die. No punishment
could exact the retribution Donna would need to
atone for this crime. Death would be too good for me. The
rosy wallpaper and grubby bedclothes began to close in on
me. Sweat stuck my t-shirt to my back and I was genuinely afraid I would shit myself with fright. Tears began to roll
down my cheeks. I took one long jagged breath before
wiping my face quickly and sneaking down into the crowd
or shrieking youngsters, none of whom had noticed my
tardiness in joining them. They were all singing 'Happy
Birthday' with gusto, I myself as loudly as any of them. Later, at home, I threw the cake back up and my mother spent an hour sponging my clammy back with cold water
and blaming the sickness on too many sweets and fizzy
drinks.

The first time Dan and I made love was in his father's potting
shed, and for the most part that's where we meet now. I was
fifteen on that occasion. It was glorious and sweaty and he
didn't really know what he was doing. But I did, or well
enough. You see, as much as I loved Dan, it was Donna who
had me first, in a way. She was always ahead of the game.
It started on a day when Dan couldn't get out to class
about with us. His mother had a room that needed painting.
Donna and I mooched around the copse of trees near the
allotments, that we grandly called The Forest, then settled
on going to Dan's hut there. We could listen to the radio
and gossip. Donna might smoke because that was her latest
fad. But not today. I should have known she was up to
something. She was especially attentive to the way I looked,
and I was flattered. I made us both an instant coffee. Then
she began to tease me about liking Dan. I told her to shut
up because that was embarrassing, an area I couldn't put
words to and didn't want to because I knew it would skew
things between the three of us. Anyhow, it made me go all red and I was sure that wasn't an attractive look. She reached
over to tickle me and soon I was helpless with giggles. Then
she kissed me. It was all quite natural, actually. I got a bit
fired up when she put her tongue in my mouth. It was lovely.
It was Donna. I would have done anything for her.
'Take your top off,' she whispered and it seemed the most natural thing in the world, so I did. She looked at my bra
and held it and my breasts in her hands. I liked it. She stuck
a thumb inside and brushed a nipple, which immediately sent a tingle through me. Then she cupped both breasts, brought them forward and kissed them. I was swooning with the closeness of her and the thrill in my body 'You like that,' she said. A statement, dispassionate in hindsight.
After that she played with me for about a month, going a little further each time. I knew she was probably just experimenting but I didn't mind. I was discovering things about myself I might never have had the courage to try without her encouragement. We spent afternoons on my bed, as mine
was the more private house. Sometimes she just sat and
watched as I did what I was told. I was only allowed to touch
her once but it did nothing for her, or me for that matter.
The whole thing petered out through this mutual lack of
interest and we never talked of it again.
Dan was duly amazed by my knowledge of my own body
and what I needed from the experience when we made love.
Donna had destroyed my inhibitions. With Dan the experience
was so much more than I would ever have dreamed. I
knew from the first time he touched me that I was properly
lost in someone else. I guided him as he undressed and kissed
me. I was light headed as his fingers found me. 'You are very,
very wet,' he said as he explored. I moved against him as he
probed me, unable to resist him. We lay back on the battered
sofa and, at my suggestion, he lowered his face and began to
tease me with his tongue. I could hear and feel his words
on me as he said, 'I love this, I love this." As difficult as it
was, I held off until he thrust into me and we were both ready
to climax. It was the most logical and exhilarating thing we
had ever done. Dan pulled away, gasping, and said, 'Christ, you're electric'
I was.
I had been primed, groomed almost, for this moment,
just as Donna had prepared herself for her turn when it
came. And she made sure that it did.
Donna awoke a physical hunger in me that has needed
sating ever since. I may not be a great beauty, as she is, but
I am entirely at ease with my body and my sexuality. I'm not
sure if Donna is aware of what she did and I can't imagine
she's pleased if she is, but I am.
She always said it was a rites-of-passage thing that we both
slept with Dan. Perhaps that was true. Maybe she even
believed that, or still does. It broke me at the time, of course,
and that may have been intended too. But I learned to deal
with it and get on with my complicated and compromised
life. After all, no one died, right?

Once Donna got her claws into Dan she hung on in there. It
was as though she saw him as her ticket out of here. I was
eviscerated by the double betrayal: I lost them both in one go.
I was cut adrift. Weirdly, we did not stop seeing one another,
in twos and our threesome, but it was never comfortable again and it was always made clear to me when I was to leg it and leave them alone. Dan was blinded, besotted. I hated Donna
then. I even hated him. They held hands and giggled, usually without telling me why. Well, I knew why they were holding hands. And more than once I saw them go further. Lord help me, I watched too, alone in my misery, turned on by how beautiful they were together, appalled by their lovemaking yet horribly fascinated by it too.
I didn't know how to deal with this altered, unwelcome status quo. I didn't have any alternative friends in case of emergencies so I took to staying in the house a lot more than usual. Mum knew there was something major up but
left me to it, which was entirely the correct thing to do. A
teenager with a broken heart is best left to stew in her own
agony. Interference, or any hint that her predicament is
known, would only result in screaming rows.
I couldn't concentrate on my schoolwork. I had been tipped
for third level but that altered almost overnight as my mind
circled through its own hellish rings and scenarios. I pitched
up to my exams and stared out of the window, unable to put
much on paper that would persuade anyone to invest in my
further education. I was letting myself get stuck in Pennick
and I didn't care how trapped I would be. The world had
ceased to matter and the future was a burden. In the meantime
Donna grew more beautiful and was signed up by a model
agency in Norwich. She was on her way and didn't hesitate to
point that out to everyone, whether they wanted to hear it or
not. The local rag announced that Pennick would be put on
the map by this teenage beauty. Dan puffed his chest out and
looked a bit of a twat, I thought. I detected a new, idiotic
swagger in his step. Neither of them noticed my anguish, and
even if they had I am not convinced they would have cared.
Then things began to go awry for Donna. She had trials
with bigger agencies, each surrounded by more hype than
the last, but nothing seemed to come of them. Over the
months, there were stories of the flu, untrustworthy
managers, a change of direction. The Pennick Post grew tired
of reporting on nothing. She retreated and went to ground.
Occasionally, the paper leaked rumours of great news to
come, that a waiting game was being played by our Donna
as she chose the right path. But gradually the nascent career
faded, was dropped as a topic of interest by the local hacks,
and never mentioned again.
I don't know how she managed it but Donna blamed Dan
for all her woes. I was delighted to see them fight. They
raged and screamed, taking turns to wound each other. I
was used by both for sounding off against, whether I wanted
to be or not. They sought me out. We didn't travel as a trio
any more. We did not function as one. It was a tragicomedy
and we were our own three stooges.
Then Donna got pregnant, and I did not, and they cleaved
together again and made plans to get married.
'May, if you don't get a move on right now you'll be late.'
'I'm coming, Mammy.'
The little girl had been looking forward to starting school
so much she couldn't sleep the night before. Her brother and sister scoffed at her, told her she was mad, a fool, but she was impatient for this new experience. Her school bag had been propped against the wall by the door for a week, full of empty copybooks and sharpened pencils. When the longed-for morning came she was ready and waiting a good hour before the off. But she'd dozed again and now she was behind. She wore a grey pinafore hand-me-down from Ellen over a new blouse. Her white tights were greying and bobbled with age and a bit short, so inclined to creep down her thighs, but her shoes shone with vigorous polishing.
She skipped all the way to the school, hanging off her mother and asking questions by the dozen. Her mother stared straight ahead and rarely answered, but that didn't matter. At the main door other small people were ready to go about their education. She knew some of them and waved and chattered. They were led into a huge lightfilled room with miniature desks and an enormous blackboard.
It was overheated and smelled of wax and chalk. Paint
peeled gently from the walls but May saw only glory. She
couldn't wait to get learning. She needed to know everything.
Her hands itched to lay out her copybooks and pencils
on her new patch. A nun stood tall and dark by the door.
She wore a long black dress and full veil with a white
starched wimple. May was so happy she forgot to breathe
and became faint till she realised what the problem was.
The mothers retreated and the crying began. May couldn't
figure out why this was happening. Then, thinking it was
the etiquette for the occasion, she joined in, wailing with
the best. A smell of pee soured the air. Some of the mothers
were summoned back to soothe their distraught children.
May watched hers disappear straight-backed out of the yard,
never looking back.
Suddenly the woman came to, as if from a sleep. She
jerked, looking around for her bearings, alert to a change in
them. This room seemed familiar but she couldn't place it.
She looked at the hands resting in her lap, amazed to find
that they belonged to an old lady. Oddly, though, they were
her own, which startled her. This is home, she thought, but
couldn't be entirely sure. How odd. The past was perfect in
her mind, each detail remembered with precision, down to
the visceral smells and sensations. The present was a mystery,
and the near-past shrouded in a haze of uncertainty. She felt
afraid, then, but knew it would get her nowhere.

THREE

This morning Mum can't find the cat and she's worried about
him. He's been dead two years: a lovely black-and-white
called Pegasus. The name suited him: he seemed to fly
through the air when he needed to. Times like these were
the ones I had greatest difficulty with at first. I would try to
correct her. The point is, though, that when she believes a
thing, like the cat being alive, her brain is away somewhere
I cannot go. It's a place that has its own logic. It's somewhere
I cannot even be invited. Correcting her would only
lead to confusion and unhappiness. Also, she wouldn't believe
me, so that could give rise to an argument and then paranoid
behaviour from her for hours. Why was I trying to
deliberately thwart her? Why was I trying to confuse her, to
lead her astray in the head? And so on. So I learned to let things slide. 'He'll turn up,' I tell her. Now, at least, she'll
stop worrying about the cat and may never actually think of Pegasus again, for all anyone knows.
She loved that animal. He had no expectations of her
except for bed and board, accompanied by adoration, and
he got all of that. He didn't notice when she began to
change, or if he did it didn't bother him overtly. She never
once raised her voice to him, although I got plenty of that
as she slid into darker areas of faded understanding. She
was content to sit for hours stroking him and he was happy
to accept that. It was a lesson for me, too. Acceptance.
After the railing 'against the dying of the light', as she liked
to put it, loftily. That was when her verbal powers were
still with her. They have not truly deserted her yet, but are
more difficult to call, to predict. We never know when they
will return, and whether that will be with some vigour or
just enough to make her self-aware and unhappy.
Increments of dissatisfaction, that's what we deal in.
I make sure Mum joins me for breakfast every morning.
We're usually early to rise. We eat and chat, listen to the
radio and try to keep abreast of the outside world. Mum
still appreciates this but can't always hold all the details of
a story together. Still, it's a routine and a fairly enjoyable
one. It gives me the opportunity to measure her mood and
to judge what might lie ahead for the day. I supervise her
shower, gently and unobtrusively. The dial on the apparatus
to deal with temperature is now as foreign to her as telling
the time on the round kitchen clock. She deals better with
digital figures; her sense of space and form is fading. More
often than not I say, 'I think I got the water just right,' in
the hope that it will stop her from jiggling with the thermostat
and burning herself if she gets it going in the wrong
direction. If Mum notices the subterfuge, she allows it,
generally.
If she's had a restless night and plans to go back to bed
for a while, I write on the bathroom door and the door of
the shower that she has washed so there'll be no second
attempt at it. We have long ago agreed all of these systems
and now don't even comment on their existence. Planning,
as with the planting of the garden, is everything. When the
building blocks are firmly in place the house is less likely to
fall down.

Kitty stepped out into the flint-sharp nip of cold that Jed
had promised. She passed along row by row of redbrick
houses, identical as meticulously capped teeth. Early
morning Pennick was furtive, a tissue of secrets hinted at
or revealed. She observed the creeping about of those who
wished not to be seen or couldn't afford to be. There was
Bert Silver returning home before his children woke so
that they might think he still lived with their mother. Andrew
Faber and the nurse who looked after his bedridden wife
walking their dogs and nuzzling close to one another, a love
story born of Multiple Sclerosis and necessity. Ali Barton
staggered back to base after another epic binge of drink and who knew what else. Kitty made her way in the wan morning light to her
allotment, to dig over a bed. Glenda Parfitt rode by on her
horse Jack The Lad, along the bridle path, also taking in the
sights but never commenting. She waved to Kitty and moved
on. Dan would already be at work, having taken over from
Benny after night duty. Everything had to be in place for
the new day. And the less time he spent at home, the less
grief he got from his wife. They were all escaping something
in their own way.
Even now, years after taking ownership of her allotment,
Kitty was still unearthing shards of crockery and small stones.
The earth was forever moving under its surface, shifting
cradled treasures, throwing to the surface those that could
be dispensed with, at seemingly random intervals. She had
a bucket for collecting interesting bits of china and hoped
to make a mosaic one day. She wondered about the people
who had shared her little site. Had there been a dwelling
here once? She must look that up sometime. Jed might know.
Perhaps the ancients had only passed by on occasion and
left behind the bits no longer needed on their journey, the
lame and the halt of the cup and saucer world.
By the door of her hut lay a small bunch of late roses wrapped in newspaper. She didn't need a note to know who
had left them. It made her smile. She had her secrets too.
She trawled through her brain for a phrase she'd heard in a
play once about flowers given as a love gift, though an unrequited
love. It had been poignant, she remembered. It fitted
these, although hers were not a symbol of unreciprocated
feelings. She crooked them in her arm and made for work.
She crunched through the dying leaves, kicking up swathes
of brown and yellow through to scarlet. Nature hurt most
when it was most beautiful, she thought.
'Lovely blooms,' Dan said, smiling, as she brought the
chill with her into the office.
She stopped to catch her breath, to savour a moment with
him. Early-morning commuters milled and shoved on the
concourse. Edie Wallace shouted through that the Marshton-on-Fore
connector was late.
'Again,' Dan conceded with a shrug.
'"Beautiful, mournful, autumn roses",' Kitty said, bringing
him back to her. She had remembered the line. At least, she
thought she had. It would do. Memory was now whatever
was useful to get through the day. Anything extra was a
bonus.
Dan watched as she put the flowers in water and placed
them by the box of ashes, to honour the occupant. She
thought she caught a strange look from him then. 'What?'
she asked.
'Oh, nothing,' he said, before moving off, half smiling,
wholly assured.
I spend a lot of time looking at the back of that man's
head, Kitty thought, noticing again how his hair had dark
fined. No longer the 'wed' of their childhood but a more
muted shade: 'burnished', she might have chanced, but
expected he would give 'rusted' as an alternative.
Donna turned up at noon. Kitty had been expecting her.
She couldn't have explained why, exactly, she just knew it
would happen. Kitty knew Donna and that ran the other
way too, she imagined. Donna looked dreadful, for her:
complexion mottled, hair unkempt. Although she was moody
and drawn, she still looked a million dollars to Kitty's eyes,
and probably always would.
'I hear you're taking a trip,' she said. 'Egypt?'
'Yes.'
'Good for you.' Not delivered in a totally positive way.
'Mums always wanted to go, and now seemed the right
time.' Although she wasn't, Kitty felt she was gabbling. Donna
often had that effect on people. The atmosphere in the office
was suddenly bleak, the air thin. Donna seemed unaffected
by it.
'Would you like a coffee?' Kitty asked.
'No. Just thought I'd come in to see how you're getting
on. See what you're up to.' Then Donna's eyes lit on the
roses and a curtain came down behind them. 'I'll see you
around, no doubt,' she told Kitty. Sounded like a dark promise
she intended to keep. She stopped at the door as if hijacked
by a sudden thought. 'We've known each other a long time,'
she said.
'Yes.'
Donna looked almost amused by that. 'Have a good time
in Egypt,' she said, and was gone.
Donna and Dan thought I was exotic, an only child with parents living apart. They professed envy of my situation, which I never understood. I loved my life, no doubt about that, but I couldn't grasp why anyone with a rumbustious home of their own would want to swap with me. We didn't have a quiet house, exactly, but the quality of the noise there was different. Mum would listen to Radio 4 or play her whirligig Irish music, sometimes dancing about to it, which made me curdle inside, particularly when I was a teenager.
Other times she might argue with the television - again shockingly cringe-inducing for me. I often told people she was mad and they seemed to accept that. She was different, that much was sure.
I did want to know why I had no brothers or sisters. It seemed an outrage when I was a very young child, not that I wanted for company. I didn't understand, though, why I couldn't have more family if I wanted. The big question was always, 'Why not?'
Mum: 'You can't have another slice of pie.'
Me: 'Why not?
Mum: 'You are not to go traipsing around the fields without
your coat on.'
Me: 'Why not?'
The answers I got to all the other questions were logical
enough but I couldn't grasp the one about siblings. I did get
that she might have liked more children, but the idea that
she wasn't lucky enough was impossible to grasp. She had
no answer to the 'Why not?' that made any sense to me but
told me she'd explain properly when I was bigger. The answer,
later, was that she'd been getting on when she had me and
didn't want to tempt fate by trying for any more children,
especially as I had turned out so well, she said. This made
me both self-congratulatory, in secret, and embarrassed, in
public, and I prayed she'd never say it to any of my friends.
It also meant that luck hadn't come into it. I took it for
granted that Dad would be the father for these mythical
brothers and or sisters. It never occurred to me to ask about
that. It would have been a very interesting 'Why not?' if the
answer hadn't suited my youthful tunnel vision.
Sometimes, when I was a kid and he stayed over, Dad
slept in the tiny spare bedroom, sometimes he was in Mums.
There was no pattern to this and I never questioned it. Just
as it wasn't odd to me that Mum had a different accent from
everyone else. We all had a lilt; hers was simply from another
country. It didn't mean I spoke any differently from the other
children in my class or on my street, and that was all I cared
about. There was an awful moment around my twelfth
birthday when Mum wondered if I would like to use Dad's
surname attached to the end of hers as my full name. I would
then have been Katherine Fulton Duke and the mortification
a disaster for me. I let it be known that the idea was
not appreciated, especially as they hadn't bothered to get
married. I made liberal use of the Big Statement to drown
out anyone else's reasoning in those days. It was never
discussed again. Oh, and there was the time Mum suggested
I call her May and my dad Stephen, which also went nowhere
as a notion. Nowadays I call her May a lot as the mixture of it and 'Mum' is needed to attract her attention.

Dad has been brilliant all along. I must tell him that. It
always seems that the people you most value are the ones
you take most (or granted. Such is love. My father is also a
master of understatement and of those tiny gestures that
make up a lifetime of devotion and care, so he and his actions
tend to get overlooked. He's been supplementing our income
so that we can buy any of the drugs we can't get on the
NHS. He let Mum work on for as long as he possibly could.
And she was capable for a while, after the diagnosis and with
the assistance of some good medication. Then she lost
interest. The lack of concentration and disappointment in
her own waning abilities got to her. She had other things to
pursue that had become altogether more important. She
planned what would happen to within an inch, wanting to
bear most of the burden she would become for as long as
possible and setting systems into place so that it would be
smoother and easier to handle for everyone when things
began to run downhill. But while we're organised, life is
untidy and plays by slippery rules that change without
warning.
Mum instated the large house diary and the system of
notes. We are on our seventh now, one for each official
year of her affliction. She rigged up the cooker to shut
down after a certain time, in case she forgot to do it. In
fact, she put in all sorts of switches and levers to safeguard
that sort of thing around the house. She wanted the transition
to be virtually unnoticeable when these things became
vital.
She tried changing her diet. We got a bit faddish, I'll
admit, following advice in articles about turmeric being useful
or Vitamin E after some report on that. She upped her
caffeine intake when it was said to aid those susceptible to
Alzheimer's because their higher cholesterol compromised
their blood/brain barriers. That resulted in headaches
and the jitters so we got her back to normal doses of tea and
coffee.
She found a support group and joined. She actually helped
out at the beginning, although she is now one of those who
need the help. She has moved on, if that's the right way to
put it. The local group, which serves a few towns in the
region, changes all the time, as people die and their families
fade away. The relatives feel incredible guilt about that, I
know, but their fight is over and they are entitled to a break
from the beast. I met one chap in the chilled food section
of the supermarket after he'd buried his dad, and he looked
so ashamed. We stood there, perished by the fridges and
wiping our noses.
'I feel such relief,' he said, looking around to be sure no
one heard the heresy but me, as if it was obscene. 'I'll be
back when I get over it all,' he promised, before scuttling
off to fruit 'n' veg. I knew I wouldn't see him again.
Dad has been there for us on the journey. We never lived
together as a family and as a result I never knew any other way
for us to be. I had two homes, if I wanted, though Pennick has
always been my base - I suppose you could call it the mother
ship without stretching credulity too far. Even when there was
a threat that I might do well enough in my A-levels to go to
university, I never really considered Dad's offer that I could stay
with him in Norwich. I managed to do badly anyhow and stayed
where I was. If either of my parents was disappointed they kept
it largely to themselves, though Mum would sometimes ask if I
might like to travel and see the world, in that casual way older
people have when they're slyly trying to gauge a life.

Kitty was not home long before Val gave his tootling knock
and entered the house. Her face lit up to see him. Val had
that effect on most people. He was infectiously positive. May
smiled and waved from her chair. She was watching television,
flicking from channel to channel without lingering
for long on any.
'Brought these back,' he said, producing May's missing
painting accoutrements. Kitty knew he'd probably visited a
few homes returning forgotten items. He always did after
leading a support group jaunt. That's where she'd found him
and persuaded him to moonlight, looking after May when
he had the spare time.
'I wondered where they'd got to,' Kitty said. 'Kept expecting
to find them in the coal scuttle or the airing cupboard.'
Val took out May's latest effort and looked at it from
different angles. It was an abstract in vivid colours that could
have been of anything but was probably a local church. 'I
base that on the fact that it was St Michan's we visited on
the day,' he said.
'How was she?'
'Animated. She and two of the others, Phil and Roger,
spent their time laughing at themselves and anyone else they
met. I had the distinct impression they were teasing passersby
with their supposed madness.'
'Naughty.'
'Yes, but great to see a bit of spirit, still ready and willing
to mock others and mess with their mojo. Mind you, if I'd
heard them sing another nursery rhyme, I might not have
been answerable for my actions. You all set for the hospital
checkup?'
'I think so. She's been preparing a lot, so I hope that
stands to her. I can't think she'll fool Mr Bishop but so long
as she's pleased, I'll be happy.'
'Well, good luck with it all. I can't stay, which I know will
break your icy heart, but try to be strong.' He kissed both
of her cheeks in farewell, then quietly asked, 'Are you still
wasting yourself on that married bloke?'
Kitty spun her head to check that May could not hear
them but her mother was still gazing at the television.
'Val, don't.'
'You are.' He sighed. 'I don't have time to give you my
sermon on the subject today but you can be sure that I'll
treat you to that again.'
She was.
'You know where to find me when the inevitable disaster strikes. You will so get dumped, my dear. But I'll be here, ready to pick up the pieces.' Then he sang, '"Why? Because
I love you'" from an old ditty that neither of them knew the
rest of.
When he had first come into their lives he'd told her Val
was short for Valentine, 'As in "My Funny".'
'Elvis Costello does a fine version,' she'd said.
'I think I love you,' he'd told her, the first of many times.
He had been hers ever since, according to his version of
events. Dear, sweet, hopeless Valentine, she thought. And
then, I am a condescending bitch. She did feel for him, just not in the way he would have liked. She watched his strangely
agile seventeen stone of kindness through the window as he
waved to a neighbour across the road then turned back to
blow Kitty a kiss. He knew she'd be looking. She couldn't
remember how it was that he knew her biggest secret but
she was certain he wouldn't have told anyone else.

May thought going to Mass was very boring but everyone
had to, that's what Mammy and Daddy said. The neighbours
would ruffle her hair outside the church and say, 'She's the
image of her father, so she is.' That was nice. It made her
preen. Inside, though, in the echoing cavern, there was
nothing to do and May hated sitting still. Her mam and dad
would wedge her between them because she was a giddy
goat. Lots of other people thought it was boring too because
there'd be a lot of coughing and that was a sign, May thought.
Father Justinian's voice made her teeth itch and he talked
forever. She never understood what he was going on about.
Sometimes he made Mam shift about in her seat too. He'd
say things like husbands were in charge, the same as Christ
was the Head of the Church. Mam would snort quietly then
and Daddy would have a smirk on his face. Mam would be
in really bad humour after one of those Masses.
Sometimes they could hear Daddy doing things to her
that sounded bad. She'd be moaning and crying a bit, but
trying to be quiet about it too. Michael Junior ran in once
and told him to stop hurting her and Mam brought him back
to his bed and told him it was fine and May thought Mam
was actually laughing but she couldn't have been if Daddy
had hurt her, though May knew he wouldn't have meant it
if he had, it'd have been an accident.
And sometimes they heard them shouting at one another
if they were by themselves in the house.

Kitty marshalled May into the back garden. The frost had
killed off a lot of the summer annuals and they lay black and
forlorn in the ground. Best to gather them up for the compost
bin and tidy everything for the dormant winter period. The
garden didn't look dead at all, of course. May had seen to
that with her planting. Red berries shone on the small rowan
tree, the mahonia sported yellow plumes and a fuchsia still
held its bell-shaped flowers like a tease over the ground.
They worked in tandem with Kitty staving off mistakes by
her mum. May hummed and was happy with the physical
labour. The temperature had improved enough for a misty
rain to sift gently from the sky. May lifted her face and said,
'Doesn't that feel great?' Kitty had to agree. It was soft on
her face, soothing to the skin.
'Donna was very interested in that little tree,' May said,
indicating a young oak still growing in a pot on the postage
stamp of decking by the back door.
Kitty stopped work with a jolt. 'Donna was here? When?'
May frowned. 'Couldn't tell you, dear.'
Kitty took some breaths to give May an opportunity to
gather any thoughts she had and to give herself a chance
not to fall in a heap on the ground.
'What did she want to know about the tree?'
'Whether it was dead. I told her no, it's just. . .' She was
lost for the word. 'Asleep,' she chose at last.
That wasn't so bad, then.
'Will you be taking it to plant at the . . . patch place?'
'The allotment? Yes, I must take it in the spring.' Kitty
only kept it here to hide it. Dan had given it to her after a
trip away during one of his marital crises. He had stayed in
Devon in a guesthouse called Twin Oaks where the landlady
bred Labradors and oak trees grown from acorns. She'd
gifted him a couple of saplings and he'd kept one and given
Kitty the other.
She remembered him commenting once that he'd been
asked why he kept a dead twig in the garden. lie had laughed
at the ignorance of it. 'Donna didn't know it was deciduous.'
He shook his head. Was it any wonder they were in trouble?
he asked. Kitty had stopped him then, feeling guilty at how
much better she felt to hear the details of his wife's folly. At
that moment, for the briefest whisper, she was not the Other
Woman. That mean-spiritedness had come back to take its
toll now. That, and so much more. Suddenly the rain no
longer felt pleasant and kind. It was cold and wet and soaking
her through. She shuddered. She felt the beginning of the
end, here in this sodden, English garden in a town no one
wanted to know about. She began to shake then, great heaving
rumbles of unhappiness.
'Let's get you in,' her mother said. 'You'll catch your death
out here.'

Donna wanted to get married quickly before her bump began
to show. She wasn't all that pleased to be pregnant but it
did take the heat off her going-nowhere career. She reckoned
a bridal splash in the local rag would help, too, and
form a useful section for her portfolio. She actually went on
a diet. I was chosen to be a bridesmaid although she already
had three sisters doing the honours there. She kept me on
a short leash, as in friends close and best friends even closer.
It is such a fine line, after all, between friends and enemies.
She chose frilled, apricot-coloured monstrosities for us to
wear while her own dress was an ivory, sleeveless, bias-cut
satin with beading at the neck and hem. Outside the wedding
preparations I took to wearing shapeless black clothes and
tried to disappear into the background. Bit by bit, I was
succeeding.
Donna took time out to be with me. She was glowing. It
pleased her to ask my opinion on her approaching nuptials
and what her life with Dan might be like thereafter. I pleaded
ignorance of any knowledge or idea that might help her and
tried to smile a lot. I knew she couldn't decide whether I
was genuinely happy for her or simply refusing to bow. I
wonder now why I ever put up with a lot of what Donna
doled out. I think it was an attempt to stay as close as could
be to Dan. And a part of me still adored her. I was under
her spell and had been since I was a child. Between them,
Dan and Donna held me tight and refused to let me go.
Then again, did I really want to be let go?
Regular conversations went something like:
Donna: 'You amaze me, you know?'
Me: 'Really?'
Donna: 'Yeah.' She would wait and wait until I crumbled
and spoke again.
Me: 'Why?'
Donna: 'You're kind of a freak.'
Me: 'Oh, yeah?'
Donna: 'Well, you should have got out when you had the
chance. There's nothing for you here. Now.'
That 'now' was calculated to wound, and it did. She was
right. I was losing my old life. I didn't have anything to look
forward to. I couldn't help but think it was deliberate on her
part. By now we were toxic for one another but I couldn't see
it. I thought it was par for the course in a friendship like ours,
close enough to be family yet far enough apart to be rivals.
Through it all, Mum was at my side. She may have known
what I was going through. Even if she could only guess, she
was solid, an anchor. Her tiny kindnesses every day made
all the difference. She ensured I was always made up and
smelling fragrant. She treated me to more flattering widow's
weeds, while gently hinting that the Goth look drained me
and she hoped it was just a phase. She made me get my hair
done. She was wonderful.
Donna was relentless but, looking back, I think she was
giving everyone a hard time. She had an effect on the whole
of her extended entourage. We all fell into line when the
Diva barked instructions. I was miserable in the extreme
and then, one ordinary day, I began to get angry. I knew
better than to let Donna see it as I thought she would be
both gratified and spurred on to torture me even further
than she had already. Besides, I had one up on her. I still
had Dan. We met more often than ever at the allotment.
He began to shrink with the worry of the wedding and
a family on the way. He was also terrified of being married
to Donna till death did them part. In lighter moments,
which we rarely allowed ourselves, he joked that she'd
expect him to be hers till his death but reckoned there'd
be a different set of rules for her. Looking back, it was
horribly disloyal of him to say it and of me to encourage
him to. I asked repeatedly if he couldn't see it was wrong
to marry under these circumstances. He would shrug and
say he had to stand by her. Dan has always suffered from
a bad case of loyalty, however misplaced. His brother
Graham was set upon for stealing a bicycle once and Dan
got five stitches in his head for sticking up for him, though
he knew Graham was guilty.
I myself was losing weight with each day nearer to the
catastrophe awaiting us all. On the night before it, Dan and
I made frantic love and I begged him not to go ahead with
this fiasco. It may have been reprehensible but I felt I was
fighting for my life. I had no shame any more. I pressed
my words against his chest, willing them to infiltrate and
infect him with my longing. My voice rose as my panic
mounted and the inevitable approached. The sky was lightening
outside and my heart was tearing itself to shreds. Again
I implored him not to go ahead with the ceremony.
'I have to,' he said.
'You don't. You so don't.'
'I do.'
'Please, Dan, I'm begging you, don't do this.'
'I have to.'
'Why? Tell me why?' And then I took the biggest gamble
of my life. 'If you can say to me that you love Donna, I will
stop asking you not to marry her.'
He took his time then gently said, 'I love her.'
After he'd left I cried until I felt physically injured and it
was time to go home to get changed. I didn't wash because I wanted to smell him on my skin and I suppose I half hoped that Donna would too and call the whole charade off. Mostly
I didn't want to believe that he loved her, but in a side
compartment of my heart I think I probably did.
I stood behind them at the altar that afternoon as they
took their vows, and we all stepped through the portal to a
new life. The animals went two by two into the Ark, I remembered,
not in threes. Must have been a good reason why.
Whichever way I looked at it, I was surplus to requirements.
FOUR

We both hate the trips to the hospital. The news is rarely
good these days. An improvement is unlikely and so we are
constantly measuring degrees of disappointment. The place itself is worn out with caring and I know how it feels. I just
hope that I don't smell as much of disinfectant and disease,
though both are large elements of my life too. The linoleum
bears the tracks of legions of the ill and their families. We
get funny looks when we turn towards the psychiatric end of
the building. We are the nutters, the loopy ones, to be
observed from a safe distance, as in olden days when
the public visited Bedlam and laughed at the lunatics from the
other side of the bars. No one meets our eyes. They are there
to deal with cancers, cankers, the flu: stuff that is easy to understand.
And beatable. You can taste the relief as they quietly
realise, There but for the grace of God go I. Looking at Mum
and me, its hard to decide who's in for the check-up, I'd say.
That often gives us a smile but it never gets far past a grimace.
Mr Bishop has a firm handshake and a frank gaze. He's
appraising me as well as Mum. 'She's in trouble if you are,'
he'd said at the start. What did he see now? A tired spinster
of a certain age. I look him directly in the eye and
say, 'We're doing well,' and that's close enough to the truth
for both of us. Then I ask whether they'd mind if I went
outside to make some phone calls, and they say that's fine.
It's all part of our hospital routine, a courtesy we pay one
another. Mr Bishop and Mum like to leave the door ajar
so I can be a part of it yet apart. I sit outside, listening to
her consultation.
I hear her go through her words. I know she is nervous
and likely to be the worse for that. But then again so does
Mr Bishop. He's seen so many like Mum. I often wonder
why he doesn't go quite stark raving daft because he can't
cure anyone. What a strange area of medicine to be in. It's
practically palliative care: he can help but he cannot make
my mother better or whole again. He waits, as his patients
do, in hope of a cure.
'Band, bar, ball, but, born, bee, beer, basket..." This is
the only two-syllable word she manages. My heart is hurting
for her. She so wants to do well. She is trying her trick of
starting a word and letting it finish itself. She gets a few
more out this way then ends with 'bad'. And it is.
I hear Mr Bishop ask her to do the clock test. I know this
will also be bad, worse even than the words. She cannot
manage the numbers and how they relate to one another on
the round dial. Time is beyond her. It's too abstract. So is
space. Mr Bishop still smiles, I can hear it in his voice, and
he tells her she's doing well - and she is, for what she's
capable of now. We are both a little in love with him. He
understands our situation and doesn't judge us for it. He is
land without pitying us. That counts for a lot.
A man approaches to take his place beside me in the small
queue in the corridor. He is next up. He starts to cry without
meaning to. His wife sits next to him and taps his leg as if
to say, There, there. I don't know why but I take his hand
in mine and squeeze it. I have never met these people before
but they are comrades in trouble. I don't know which of
them is to be assessed. Of course it's both, whoever has the
screw loose.

Rain clouds glower in the sky above us, waiting for their
moment. Ii it doesn't pour down we'll have a new set of
umbrellas handed in at the station. When the rain comes
people don't need reminding to put them up. When it is
dull but doesn't deliver, the brollies are left behind. We sit
on the station bench, our silence heavy after the hospital
and the journey ahead not interesting enough to get excited
about.
'We're off soon,' Mum says.
She might be referring to our return to Pennick or our
upcoming holiday. It's best to keep the conversation open.
'We are,' I agree.
'I'm looking forward to it.'
I know this to be a handy phrase, just as I know Mum is
not really capable of imagining the future properly now. I
have been reminding her of our foreign trip each day and
night, hoping that it's embedded somewhere in her consciousness
that hasn't been devoured by her perfidious brain yet.
'There's not a whole lot to be happy about now but the
holiday' So, it was Egypt she was referring to.
'Mum, you heard what Mr Bishop said: you're doing well.
In fact, you're a bit of a marvel. You did better than he
expected.'
'It's never going to be good, though, is it? I cannot beat
this thing. I can keep it... off.' Whatever phrase she wanted
to use here wouldn't come.
We've been over this ground many times. In earlier days,
Mum had similes about thrashing waves and expecting the
tide to retreat. She very rarely manages these any more.
Now it is more a case of tilting at windmills without fully
understanding why, only because they are there and in
the way.
I've always thought that windmills look as though they are
constantly warding off attack, whirling their sails to confuse
and strike, if necessary. They seem to be under perpetual
siege. Even at rest they look poised to deliver some sort of
leisurely karate chop to an assailant. Ever-vigilant, the windmill.
As we must be now.
'I get so tired, Kitty.' I know this continual compromise
is wearing my mother out and, although she doesn't say it,
he's scared too. We have an unspoken vow not to go into
hat territory as it makes us both extremely uneasy and that :eels only a breath away from panic.
'Mum, just think. Two weeks from now you'll be swimming
in the Red Sea. How about that?'
'Will I, dear?' She is suddenly bewildered by the notion.
My stricken face sends her to deflect mode. 'I've always
wanted to, haven't I?' She begins to search in her bag, as if
busily following a plan, unwilling to let me see her confusion.
'I must pack my pink dress.'
'You do that,' I tell her.
My mother doesn't have a pink dress.

Mum responded to her diagnosis by devouring information
about the disease. She read as much as she could about it
as if that would give her the leverage she needed to deal
with it from the upper hand. She became obsessed with
new developments in treatment and was every doctor's nightmare,
namely a patient who took an interest. The first battery
of tests were notable for the way I fared only slightly better
than her on some of the questions. I failed to name the
correct date or time; I have clocks and calendars for all that.
I was rubbish at counting backwards in sevens from one
hundred. Mr Bishop laughed gently and said he had problems
with those himself and that stress often produced similar
symptoms to what they were looking for. He also invoked
'benign senescent forgetfulness', which I found out was a
beautiful way of saying we're all getting old.
The MRI scan revealed the extent of the damage to Mum's
brain and afterwards I knew all too exactly where her
temporal lobes were and how diminished her hippocampus
was. These were new and unwelcome pieces of information
and we left the clinic feeling low and wondering how to
proceed.
I have no choice but to face this full on,' Mum said, which
was when she began her researches.
'Are you not the one constantly declaring how dangerous
a little learning is?' I teased her.
'That's me being ironic. Knowledge is the only way we'll
get through this with any dignity' She sighed. '"Second childishness
and mere oblivion".' I must have looked puzzled.
'Shakespeare,' she explained.
'Surely you're quite like that now,' I pointed out.
Mum gave me a watery smile. 'You'll be living with a
lunatic eventually,' she warned.
'That's a long way off yet.'
'But when I get there I intend to be a regular size twelve
again. Time to lose some weight.'
She was so determined to continue as if everything was
normal. But of course it wasn't and never would be again.
Drugs modified her symptoms, took the edge off them.
She set about her self-imposed tasks, learning as much as
she could, and then trying to learn it again, as assimilating
information was now getting beyond her. It was like those
absent memories of things that had recently happened to
her; the memory of the event was not lost so much as
never formed properly in the first place. What bits she
could grasp and hold on to she worried like beads, trying
her utmost to fathom the new information and what it
meant to us.
And then she began to get angry. She raged, which was
a side of her seldom seen before. My mother is a gentle
creature who loves poetry and her garden. Where was she
within this angry woman? How could she be in there? Would
she come back out again or was this my new mother? Again,
it was just a phase and she eventually calmed down. We
reached an acceptance. In a way, I felt it was the hardest
stage to absorb.

We've all had this conversation. It's the one where you see
someone in extremis, in the street, a hospital or on TV, and
say to your closest, 'If I ever get like that, shoot me.' Seems
simple. You point out you'd do it for a dog, so why not your
nearest and dearest? Mum and I had The Conversation early
on. We both knew, and still know, that a time will come
when she'll be lost to herself and unable to cope with even
the most basic things. She wants to retain some dignity. Who
doesn't? I've told her I'll help. But it's an abstract notion as
yet. She brings it up occasionally, to check that I am still onside.
She took the optimum moment to discuss it oh-so-casually, but I knew she had been thinking about it a lot. She was reading a report in a paper about a man and his wife who had travelled to the continent for her assisted suicide. Mum
read the article aloud and with some relish. She liked to give
her own emphases to a passage, make it more interesting
and usually more dramatic than it was. There was no need
here. It was a detailed account, though the facts that delighted
her most might have passed other people by. That was what
I loved about Mum, that urgent and sometimes wicked sense
of humour, on the very edge of propriety. It tickled her that
the man described what a lovely day out they'd had before
they sat down to the deadly cocktail of drugs that would
end his beloveds life. His wife had been suffering from a
virulent cancer and had decided that she'd like to leave on
her own terms, which she did.
'Isn't that great?' Mum said. 'She did what she needed to
and he gave his support.' Then she returned to the newspaper
and paraphrased; 'We had a tremendous day out and
then my wife killed herself, as scheduled.' Mum stifled a
chuckle. 'And just think how economical it was,' she pointed
out. 'As far as flights go, they only needed one single and
one return, so good value on top of everything else! The
wife's carbon footprint won't have taken too much of a
battering either.' A wicked analysis, off beam but full of
admiration for the people involved.
We toasted the couple, their thoughtfulness and courage,
then got sidetracked into a chat about leaving nothing behind
but your footprints and how, logically, that didn't really apply
to air travel but if we had wings we could measure feathers.
See? An abstract madness, but fun. Then she brought things
skilfully around to her own predicament and I agreed to
help, though we didn't go into detail. Her hope is that she'll
swim out to sea one day and I won't call her back in. I'm
hoping it'll be that easy.
It's not that I disagree with her wishes. I want her to enjoy
her life as fully as possible. And I want her to leave it her
way. It's the ultimate act of love, surely, and an honour to
be asked to help. But I cannot actually imagine doing it.
Perhaps it'll be the most natural thing in the world when it
presents itself. I hope so. I don't think I am a brave person
and I do not want to fail her in any way. It will be the biggest
moment of both our lives and I don't want to fuck it up.

Stephen Duke was not convinced that his daughter's trip to
Egypt was a good thing but he kept his own counsel. Kitty
seemed sure that it would please May but Stephen felt it
would be beyond her straitened capabilities. Another new world to fathom was a tall order for her already addled brain.
She was aware of the holiday, in general terms, but had no
informed opinion about it that he could see.
'Egypt will be nice,' he'd said one day.
'Egypt will be nice,' she'd parroted.
She had taken to repeating phrases, buying herself time
while she figured out what on earth people were talking
about or asking her. He was increasingly conscious of her
failing vocabulary. Her speech was plain now, simple. She
had moments of descriptive ability but they were occurring
further and further apart. She was a pared-down version of
the May he'd known. It was strange to watch a woman fade
with each week that passed, her new transparency a sad
reminder of the forthright spirit who had lived to talk, discuss,
dissect language and beauty. This disease was a cruel bastard.
'Would you like me to come along?' Stephen asked his
daughter.
In fairness to Kitty she did not dismiss the idea out of
hand or immediately.
'No, Dad,' she said after due consideration. 'Thanks for
the offer but I think we'll be fine. There'll be less pressure
on Mum if it's just me and her. I think she feels like a lab
animal sometimes, with us both watching her so closely. The
scrutiny amazes her when she's having a good day and annoys
her when she's not.'
'Have you thought some more about extra home help?'
'Yes. It's expensive, you know? I'm hoping we'll manage a
while longer without it. The neighbours are wonderful, so is
Val, and really between us all it's like proper care in the
community stuff. We've created a kind of sheltered accommodation
for her here.'
'The time will come,' he said, letting the statement hang
between them.
'I know it will, Dad. In fact, I don't think it's that far away.'
This admission of the inevitable scored hard lines into Kitty's
already tired face. "We'll do what we can till then. And make
the tough decisions when we have to. Mum's prepared us
well for this.'

I worry about taking Mum to Egypt, of course I do. It's
a high-risk trip. It will take us beyond her comfort zone,
such as that is now. We should have done it years ago but
it never seemed to be the right time. As you go on you
realise there is never a right time for anything, there's
only doing something and getting on with what follows,
or not doing something and taking that path instead. I
make sure to talk to her regularly about it so that it won't
be too much of a shock when we set off. At this stage
she's confused enough to be totally excited about going
one moment, and fed up with hearing about the holiday,
the next - like a child that's been told about a new brother
or sister too soon and loses interest long before the baby
is born.
The whole town knows about the trip and has an opinion
about what we should do there and see, whether or not they've
been themselves. The library is fresh out of Egyptology as
friends and colleagues go out of their way to help. They mean
well but sometimes, when I'm low, it feels ever so slightly
patronising. People want to be involved, and our neighbours
have been sterling, but they like going back into their own
homes and shutting the door against the big bad wolf that
has May Fulton in his grasp. Her fate, unfolding before
their startled eyes, reminds them too much of their own
fragility. Every time they walk from one room to another now,
wondering what they came in for, I am sure they think they
have what May has. Just a touch, a little start up. Most of
the time it's simply that they have too much on their minds.
Not something Mum has to worry about too often these days.
She's slowly drifting back to the safety of yesterday, which is
a place she remembers surprisingly well. Of course, when I
walk about forgetting what I intended to do, I am reminded
that this may well be a prelude to the same disease for myself.
Maybe not. We can hope. Or in some cases we can.
That's what makes us such adaptable creatures, I think,
hope. It's the chance of a change, of catching a decent break
in the cosmic order, the opportunity to improve our lot. We
look forward. Or maybe hope makes idiots of us, toying with
our dreams, delivering just enough to keep us hooked and
never fulfilling its end of this bargain we made with ourselves
in the first place. Humans are fools to themselves, then? You
don't catch domestic pets getting hung up on the future and
they care little about the past either, yet they have trained
us nicely to do their bidding.
We base our futures on a set of results from the past.
Looking at Mum now, I wonder about the wisdom of the
system. Her past is eroding and with it her future. I feel her
absence all around me. Her energy is dissipating, that
fantastic aura of possibility and wonder she brought with
her, the relish for life. I miss it. I mourn for it. Strange to
grieve ahead of time but that is what this disease has forced
into our home. I cannot avoid it as less of her appears each
morning at the top of the stairs.

May's daddy was the most handsome man in the world. He
was funny too. Mammy said he could make a cat laugh. Then
she'd say he couldn't get around her that easy! He sold things.
That was his job. He'd go down the country and sell people
things they needed like thread and soap. Daddy said he was
a Knight of the Road. Mammy said it was a poor thing he
had to leave town to peddle his blather when there was
plenty would believe his nonsense here. Then he'd make
her laugh and might pull her on to his knee. But she'd give
him a kind of smack and say there'd be no more of that,
three children was enough.
There was another baby for a while but he didn't last and
they must have given him back at the hospital because that's
where they brought him one day and came home without
him later on. Ellen said he was dead but that didn't seem
likely to May.
Daddy never minded answering all May's questions.
Sometimes Mammy said he should tell her the truth and
not fairytales but May trusted him to say what she needed
to know. He had a rumbling laugh, like the train coming
from a long way off.
He made lots of sounds that May loved. Her bedroom
was over the kitchen and in the morning she heard the taptaptap
of his razor off the side of the big white sink as he
shaved. She'd snuggle deeper into the mattress, feeling safe.
If she was downstairs watching him, she'd hear the graze of
the blade as it scraped his face. He would ask her nonsense
questions and then shake his head and say, 'Oh, not by the
hair on my chinny-chin-chin.' And Mam would warn him
that there better not be one single trace of him in her sink
and she about to get food ready for the whole family and
that it was unhygienic and she didn't know why he couldn't
take a basin into the backyard like any other man in the
parish. And Daddy would say that he was not like any other
man in the parish and Mam would say, 'Don't I know it?'
and sometimes that was a good thing and sometimes it wasn't.

Dan Gibbs was not a fanciful man; that had been knocked
out of him long ago. But he did feel he was a soul in torment
and that a lot of it was of his own making. This did not make
him feel in any way sorry for himself. He didn't much like
self-pity in anyone. He wasn't cut much slack for that kind
of behaviour at home, and was usually too busy at work to
indulge in it. What he did like then was to beat the living
daylights out of a piece of engine or track. That normally
did the trick.
He was worried about Kitty. She looked tired. In fact, she
was worn out but beyond feeling exhausted by the constant
grind of her daily life. She tried to wear her burden lightly
but was not always successful. He had taken to calling in at
her home, to check if she and her mother needed anything
doing. Often May recognised him and that was gratifying.
If she did not, he gently prompted her to acceptance that
she knew him and could trust him to be there. It was a delicate
operation as she grew tearful if she felt she wasn't
grasping the nub of a situation. He couldn't bear to see her
cry. He felt even worse when her daughter did, which was
not often as Kitty was rarely self-indulgent either. They had
been through too much together for that.
Today was a good start as May greeted him by name
and led him into the kitchen. She made tea and said Kitty
had gone out but would be back. Dan was fairly sure he
could hear her upstairs.
'Did you get married yet?' May asked.
'Indeed I did.' He chanced a wry grin as if to say, I must
have been mad.
May was surprised by the news. 'Oh. Was I there?'
'Yes, you were. Thank you for coming along.'
'Well, of course I did, silly.' She came over all conspiratorial
then. 'Now tell me again, why did Kitty not wear white?
She hates it if I ask her anything about it.'
He should have just lied but Dan had denied Kitty enough
and he couldn't bring himself to it. 'I didn't marry Kitty,
May.'
'Oh. Why not?'
There was no answer he could give, not even the truth,
so he sat feeling dejected and ashamed of himself. I have
not been fair to Kitty, he thought, ever.
'Is this a pot or a bowl?' May asked, holding up a yellow
basin. I can only put the bowls in that zap thing.' She looked
at the microwave and back at the basin. 'It'll never fit,' she
said, puzzled all over again by life's intricacies.

The house is a mess but I'm thinking of leaving any major
changes till after we get back from Egypt. Dad or Dan might
come in to clear out some things for me while we're gone
and I'm presuming Mum won't notice. I want her to know
she's home when we return but not to miss anything that's
been chucked while we're away. We have accumulated a lot
of rubbish. There are the Post-its, for starters, which could
do with sifting through and sorting out. Some of the messages
are quadrupled reminders. It makes Mum feel good to put
them up. She'll have forgotten about the first by the time
the second goes up, let alone the umpteenth one. The knitting
is becoming a jumble too. She can't follow a pattern
any more so she makes it up as she goes along. I call it Jazz
Knitting with its eclectic colours and textures, and it gives
Mum great satisfaction, but it doesn't half clog up our living
area.
She hasn't bothered with the photo albums in a while.
At first she sought them out and immersed herself in
them. She began with the oldest, touching a sepia print
of a boy who was fading before her eyes, repeating his
name. At her sister's portrait, she read her name aloud.
In turn, she said her mother's and her grandmother's. All
the while she fretted at the images with her fingers, willing
them to commit to a memory she could no longer trust.
Names, incantations, pleadings. She was trying to fix the
facts of her life by repetition, like cramming for an exam.
When she seemed convinced she had won some of this
battle, she moved on to the albums full of photos of us.
But they are past phantoms too, capturing a moment, no
more. Still, it is our history and she wanted to acknowledge
it, consume it.
She had read about the notion of creating a Memory
Palace, where a house is created in the mind and memories
and events deliberately distributed throughout its 'rooms'.
So, in the hallway might be images of a birthday, treasured
holiday reminders in the main fireplace, mementoes of the
birth of a child on a table, and so on. She tried to do this
but found it a very difficult exercise and frustrating in the
choosing of what was important and what not. The mind is
capricious and constantly throws up random memories that may have no lasting significance to anyone, even the person
recalling them.
'I am hijacked by trivia,' she'd complain.
So, we decided to try to use our own little house to
embody, physically, a type of Memory Palace. We selected
photographs that held special significance, framed them,
and put them in a sequence that pleased Mum and
resonated with her in some way. All of the frames have
labels on, identifying the people pictured. Similarly, we put
the paintings and books she cherishes most at prominent
points in the main room. Music she likes was categorised
and made easily accessible. We are both quite scattergun
so it was an interesting exercise to put some order into
these things. Since then I make sure everything is where
we decided at that time so that it is constant in her world
and can be relied on. I wish we had a bigger space to deal
with, as it's hard to stay neat in our cramped house, but
the totemic items of our mini-Memory Palace are never
disturbed unless it is by Mum as she tries to puzzle out
their significance for her, after which I return them to their
assigned places.
The books could do with culling, loath as I am to get
into that. I try reading poetry to Mum as it brought her
such pleasure when she was fully aware of such things. I
think she still likes it but, more and more, she enjoys the
simpler pieces, especially anything that rhymes. She's
getting very into the advertisements on television too. They
seem to hold just the right attention span for her. It also
means she comes back from the supermarket with everything
she's been told about by the box in the corner. I like
to think it proves there is a viable subconscious still striving
away inside that poor scrambled head of hers, even if we
don't need nappies for new-borns or the no-tears shampoo
for kids, but it could just be coincidence and the attractive, shiny packaging.
I've been enjoying the poetry myself. I think I resisted it down all the years because it was Mum's thing and I didn't want to conform to that. There was an element of rebelling
against the school curriculum too, I suppose, though it was
a rubbish revolt as I quite liked my teachers and my time
there. Fin beginning to realise that I was the one missing out. Mum likes to repeat the words that especially resonate with her. I cannot tell whether it is their sound or meaning that pleases her. She struggles with the more abstract works.
I find I am drawn to pieces that explore grief and how we
deal with being human, but I keep those for myself alone
so as not to upset Mum. A gentle trot through a poet's despair
can be a cathartic experience when the day has been a
shambles. It's comforting to participate yet remain detached
from someone else's problems: looking on and experiencing
an aspect of this other life, and deriving wisdom from the
poet's burden. It's also a vindication of one's own feelings.
People get as much from observing Mum and me, I suppose.
The house smells of shoe protector, which I am hoping
will fade while we are away. Mum used it instead of furniture
polish a few days ago, in a rare moment of domesticity.
Well, now we're shored up against the elements should they
decide to storm the place; another barbarian at our gate, but
this one a bit gentler than the disease Alois Alzheimer lent
his name to. When I say this to Dad his love of wordplay
kicks in and he insists we go the full Mrs Malaprop on it
and say another Bavarian is at our gate. It makes me smile
to picture a man in feathered hat and lederhosen yodelling
out our doom, and the gaiety is a welcome thing. The niff,
however, is nasty. I suspect she may have used the shoe spray
as an air freshener too, while she was at it.

Dan's niece Margo took over the afternoon before Kitty left
town, to practise giving holiday cover. The thinking was
that if there was a problem, she would have back-up and
would also get used to running the office without too much
pressure. It made Margo tut that anyone would assume she'd
lose sleep over working in this two-bit place, and anyway
Uncle Dan was going to be around so what was the big deal?
It would be a doddle. She was a lot more bothered with how
she'd dress for the fortnight she was on duty, and how she'd
get out on to the platforms looking busy and fabulous when
the local stud Fred Rowland was passing through with his
entourage.
Kitty had left a list of things that might be handy for her
to know. She ignored it after getting to the bit that explained
again about her stupid Lost and Found system. As far as
Margo was concerned that was extra work and she was not
being paid to do it, so she wouldn't. No one would be any
the wiser. It was a typically finicky thing for a spinster like
Kitty to set up. She couldn't believe the woman had tried
to tell her about increased security risks associated with
abandoned packages too. As if any self-respecting terrorist
would waste time blowing up this shit-hole.
Margo shifted the shiny box of cremated ashes to the back
of the shelves because it gave her the creeps. She chased out
the smelly, ginger cat, Rory or whatever his name was. 'Scram!'
and a rolled-up newspaper did the trick there. After an hour
of strangers arriving and riffling through the umbrellas she
got royally fed up and hid most of them. Mad Marty Faber
asked after a lunchbox he was missing, like she could be arsed
looking for that, so she ran him out of the place.
Then a tall saddo came in saying some undertakers had
sent him. Too weirdoid by half for Margo and she was so
not going to get involved. She told him that Kitty Fulton
would be back in two weeks' time and she was who he
needed to see. Then Margo forgot all about him and began
to paint her nails and dream of when the tracks on her
teeth would come off, revealing a set of to-die-for pearlies
that Fred Rowland would want to run his tongue along
forever. She worried she might catch being a spinster just
from sitting on Kitty's chair.
Outside, as the rain began to drive from the heavens in
sheets, Simon Hill knew he should have been more forceful
about the package he had misplaced, but he was so ashamed
to have lost his father in such a way that he dared not draw
any more attention to it than he had. Sullen teenagers were
utterly beyond him, and the girl at the desk had made him
even more awkward than usual. He was positive he'd stuttered
and had just missed going arse over tit on the wet tiles on
his retreat. His old man would have to forgive him and remain
in the station at Pennick another fourteen days. It's not like
the old guy had plans to go anywhere else in the meantime,
Simon reasoned.

The earth had shifted again. Kitty used her last afternoon
before the holiday to finish digging over her plot. When the
frost came again it would kill all the exposed weeds for her.
This time the ground yielded a small bundle wrapped in
sturdy linen. She almost missed it, so dirty was the cloth,
but it stuck out at an angle from the rest of the soil, calling
her attention. She carefully prised it open to reveal a grubby
toy of some sort. She tucked it in her pocket and continued
with her work then forgot all about it as she prepared lists
in her head of things to do before their departure.
The rain had upped its tempo and the earth smelled ripe
and strong. There was a mildness in the air that made her
smile. Jed stood under the eaves of his shed, bundled deep
into his coat, and called, 'Reckon that'll be with us best part
of some time.'
'Good for the veg,' she said.
'Yer away on hol'day termarra?'
Kitty smiled and nodded.
'I'll hatta keep an eye so agearnst yur patch git harm'd.'
'I'd appreciate that, Jed. Thank you.'
'An yer maara?'
'She's doing fine. I'll let her know you were asking after
her. We'll bring you back a camel.'
'Egypt,' he said in awe. 'Sich a thing,' he added, shaking
his head.

Kitty and May had a calendar showing how many days to
the off. It was like the advent countdown. Each night they
put a line through another day and prepared themselves
further for their trip. Kitty knew that her mother needed
structure now, a routine that could be relied on. Confusion
was an enemy and if it could be avoided it was. Even though
May's memory was not good, the reiteration of the little
ceremony each night allowed her to be reminded of the
shared plan. Now, it was time. That night Kitty handed her
mother the thick red marker and breathed in the chemicals
as May ceremoniously drew her mark across the date, the
pen squeaking on the paper. They stood back to look at it
together and May said, 'We're going, aren't we?'
'After a good sleep. Now come on, the sooner we go to
bed, the sooner morning will come. Then we can get our
train and our plane and go to see the Pyramids.'
Kitty remembered Christmases from her childhood when
excitement was peaking and her mother had used a similar
line on her. Is it inevitable that we become our parents? she
wondered. Does history always repeat itself, even in such
small ways?
May's dad taught his family to swim on a day out by the sea.
Mammy packed a picnic and they got the bus to Burnstown.
He showed them a dog paddling in the water off the narrow
pier that led out into the sea then threw them in one by
one, in spite of her Mam's objections. 'They'll either sink or
swim,' he said, and he was right. Ellen sank and Michael
Junior and May swam. For months afterwards Ellen had to
be coaxed to wash, much less go into the ocean again, whereas
May and her brother wanted to go every day. Sometimes
they shared a stick of rock and once they had a candyfloss.
May loved the sweetness in her mouth after the salt of the
sea. By then she could do more than the doggy paddle,
having copied other children doing the crawl. Daddy called
her Esther Williams but she didn't know who that was.
That summer was the happiest of her young life, the whole
family together going on trips and arguing. A year later
Michael Junior was dead, hit by a car whose driver never
stopped to help or admit to the crime. May saw her brother
laid out in his coffin on the kitchen table, and cried. He
had a small cut on his cheek and a bruise on his forehead
but otherwise looked as though he was asleep. Why would
he not wake up? It wasn't funny any more, she told him,
but it did no good: he had always been a stubborn boy.
May's mother stopped speaking much and would sit for
hours holding his favourite jumper in her hands, sometimes
bringing it to her nose and inhaling really deeply as if she
could breathe him back in if she did, and then maybe breathe
him back out alive too while she was at it. She would take
out a pair of baby's booties and that made her even sadder.
She kept muttering about her two boys gone and Daddy
would try to jolly her along saying, 'You still have me,' but
she told him he was nothing but a fool. After a long time
spent sitting in her kitchen she said she wanted to get a job
and out of this place, but Daddy wasn't happy about that
at all.
One day May's dad went on his rounds and never came
back. May heard the women whispering downstairs after the
children had been packed off to bed. Her mam said, 'He
couldn't give me an inch of freedom without it nearly killing
me as well as him. How will I manage now?' Then she wailed
a bit which was an awful sound, not like a person at all.
Granny Larkin said, 'Good riddance to bad rubbish,' but
May knew she didn't mean it. Daddy made her laugh too.
He used to read out bits from the papers in funny voices
and she would have to cover her mouth so no one could see
the space where her top teeth should be when she hadn't
her dentures in.
May didn't think he was dead, just gone off. But she did
think their baby was dead by then because of Mammy and
the bootees. May wasn't sad about the baby, even though
she knew that she should be, but she'd only seen him the
once and he looked like lots of others babies except maybe
smaller. She missed Michael Junior like mad and would
have given up all the swims in the world to have him back.
She could smell the smoke from the women's cigarettes and
hear them going 'Shush, now, shush' to her mam when she
said, 'I drove him away'.
Ellen turned in the bed to May's right and moaned. She
felt the mattress grow warm as a stream of her sister's wee
reached her legs. Soon it would go cold. She tried to get to
sleep before that happened.

Kitty and May took a cab to Pennick station where Dan
fussed over them like a porter looking for a tip.
Is it royalty that lad thinks we are?' May asked, preening at the attention.
'Well, I think we're special,' Kitty said, 'so we deserve
special treatment.'
He offered tea and coffee while they were waiting, a
service other travellers looked most interested in.
'Are you all right for money?' he asked.
'For the umpteenth time, yes.'
'Will your mobile phone work over there?'
'Yes.' Kitty didn't know the truth of that and it didn't worry
her. There was little that couldn't wait till their return, she
guessed, and precious few people to call from over there
who wouldn't be satisfied with a postcard.
Dan saw them to their seats when the train arrived, stowed
their luggage, promised yet again to feed Roly. The cat hadn't
turned up to see them off. Dan had rarely been without
Kitty for this long a stretch. She thought that was why he
looked so gaunt. It made her happy that he would clearly
miss her so much. For his part, Dan knew his expression
was not solely due to this but that news could wait the length
of the holiday. Their lives were about to change again, utterly.
He wore the expression of a man condemned.
As the women waved goodbye to him through a mud
streaked window, May asked, 'Are we going to find Daddy?'
FIVE

We're in Cairo before our introduction to the others who
will be with us for the duration of our tour. There are
seven of them, all Brits, mostly getting on in years in as
much as I am the youngest. I spotted one called Liz at
Heathrow, yelling instructions at her husband Bernard. It made me wonder if he was deaf or whether her voice was always this strident. I find out it's the latter as she must be the one who is hard of hearing if she can make that sort of noise without wincing. Mum is fascinated to recognise 'the loud one' and, as much as it pleases me that she
does, the fact that she points and bellows this just as loudly
as Liz takes some of the shine off the achievement. Liz
has seen and heard her and I expect retribution at some
point in the future from the look she shoots us. Bernard
seems pleased, though. They have a stray woman in tow
called Rita who looks as if she might bolt at any moment
but for Liz's steely grip on her arm. There are two couples
making up the group, a pair called Sue and Mags who
announce themselves as 'The Merry Widows', and Jim and
Edna who are just merry, having spent the entire journey
drinking gin and laughing together. We met as we gathered
under the 'Faraway Holidays' sign held aloft by a man
in a suit in the baggage reclaim hall. He sees us to the
door of the terminal and hands us over to another smartly
dressed man who sees us to the minibus in which a third
suited man sits beside a driver, ready to escort us to our
hotel. The second suit waves us off but stays put.
Cairo is all lit up as we whizz through it to our hotel. The
others chat happily about what we can expect and loudly
ignore the fact that our guide and driver might speak better
English than most of us. 'They' expect tips all the time, is
Jim's pronouncement.
'Baksheesh,' I supply, quietly, having done my homework.
'Pardon?' he roars into the back of the minibus.
I shake my head to indicate that it was nothing.
Mum points at the palm trees silhouetted against the
orange of the streetlights and the minarets reaching into
the night sky. She is chattering animatedly and making no
sense that I can discern, but then neither are the others
and no one notices. We finally pull into a sprawling hotel
in the suburbs, isolated from the city hubbub, all marble
columns, clipped greenery and busy staff. We are given our
keys, an itinerary, and then abandoned to more staff and
our touristy fate for the evening.
There is a large swimming pool on the way to our room
and I make a note to lock the door in case Mum takes to
wandering in the night. The room is decorated in lots of
browns and has a slightly jaded air. I know how it feels. I
give the porter too big a tip because I have not been able
to change any of the large denomination notes I got at the
bank. He is delighted and I realise with a sinking heart that
he'll spread word we are a couple of flush women and we'll
be mobbed. As I let him out I check the door. The lock
seems serviceable enough. That pool out there is trouble
with a capital T and I cannot risk its allure. Mum is staring
at screen disturbance on the television.
'Just like the moon landing in '69,' she tells me. 'Your father
had a small black-and-white set and we watched it on that.'
'Before I was even thought of,' I say, and she looks at me
as if I am the hired help forgetting my position. I let it go.
I know she doesn't mean any harm but there are times when I crave an unforced hug or words of unexpected praise, like
in the old days.
There is no point in unpacking much as we'll only be here
two nights before leaving for a cruise on the Nile. We head
back to the main body of the hotel for something to eat. The
rest of the group lie in wait for us, drinks in hand. The pack
has spotted an anomaly and wants an explanation. I feel so
weary but I refuse to give in. This slender life is too important
for that.
Kitty kept a smile pinned in place to deflect the worst of
the intrusive enquiries. It was too early to be intimate with
these strangers. They could stew in their curiosity. This was
only the initial phase of getting to know one another and
distractions were easy to find on that first night. Amateurs,
she would tell her dad when she reported back to him. When
Kitty and Mays turn for scrutiny came it was simple enough
to keep the talk on Norfolk, which most had visited if not
Pennick. Or if they had passed through they couldn't
remember it, which was no surprise as it would have been
little more than a station platform glimpsed from a train or
an obscure mention on a road sign pointing in the wrong
direction. The Merry Widows had travelled on the Poppy
Line, the heritage railway in the north of the county. And
wasn't there another pretty line through the Broads National
Park? the women wondered, almost to themselves. Bure
Valley Railway, Kitty could tell them. Jim and Edna had
sailed on the Norfolk Broads. Bernard's eyes shone as he
lovingly described a visit to Houghton Hall near Kings Lynn
which has the largest collection of toy soldiers in the world.
His wife Liz shut him up sharpish, having obviously loathed
it, though she did decree the estate to be a fine one. Their
mate Rita looked lost and barely uttered a word. Perhaps
Kitty and May were not the only ones concealing something.
What could Kitty have said to redeem her home town's
reputation? What was there to tell that would hold their
interest or whet their appetites? It was functional, not
hugely attractive, like a fixture used every day, without
mystery or particular menace. It was probably no worse
than anywhere else. It hosted people from birth to death
and most of them were content enough with that. It didn't
make big promises it couldn't keep: people went to Norwich
or Manchester or London for that. It was comfortable. She
realised this was the damning with faint praise that a town
could do without, so she kept schtum.
Kitty monitored her mother's wine intake. Two glasses was
more than enough. The last thing they needed was a hungover
May, who would be cranky yet not remember why she should
feel bad. Paracetamol and an explanation only went so far
any more. They ate some lamb and couscous as soakage and
May enjoyed it.
'Always tastes better away,' she said, and everyone agreed.
They were nearly getting by. Her mother began to yawn on
cue and Kitty made their excuses and got them out of there.
'We'll see you bright and early,' Liz called. It sounded
partly like a promise and awfully like a threat.
The following morning was the first of many early starts.
A clear, blue sky heralded the expected good weather but
the shade was chilly and Kitty and May hugged their linen
jackets close. There was no escaping the gang. Kitty steered
her mother through the less-used door of the dining hall
and shielded the two of them behind a few pillars but they
were caught at juices and rolls and had to join the Brits'
table.
"I
The breakfast buffet offered meats and cheeses, a chef
stood by a griddle to make omelettes, yet still there was the
longing mention of a good old British fry up. Kitty felt the
heat of embarrassment.
'Are they mad?' May asked, a little too loudly again.
'A bit,' Kitty said in a low voice and distracted her with
some yogurt.
The men had the alert look of naughty boys who'd stayed
out late, drunk too much but refused to admit to the damage
they must feel. Liz had donned a kaftan and probably assumed
she'd gone native as a result. Rita was downcast and the
Merries pale. It looked as though they'd all over-indulged the
previous night. There was a nightclub housed within the hotel
complex, the men reported in the martyred tones of pioneers
who had explored on behalf of the group and the good of all.
Kitty suspected several bottles of duty free had taken a
battering in the quiet of the bedrooms after the official
festivities had ended.
Liz read aloud from the brochure, bossily telling them
they would visit the Egyptian Museum first. 'Museums,' she
tutted, as if this was a waste of time.
'Eejit,' May muttered.
'What did she say?' Liz asked, hard voiced and slit eyed. 'Egypt,' Kitty said. 'She loves it. We both do.' She smiled
broadly and her mother tittered. She understood that, Kitty
thought, and glowed a little.
We have not been here more than ten hours and already
the pecking order within the group is clear, with Liz putting
herself forward as leader. I pity the guides. She is so busy
talking about being 'out foreign' that she's missing the delights
of our first proper drive. Mum points to the horizon and
says, 'Pyramids,' and sure enough there they are. The pyramids
of Giza are visible in the distance just beyond the
outskirts of the modern city. I am dumbstruck by the sight.
These are the last Wonder of the Ancient World still in existence.
It's like meeting an impossibly famous film star and
dribbling like an imbecile instead of saying something lucid,
or anything at all. All I can do is repeat the word and point.
And dribble. The guide smiles. Her name is Mary, nothing
more exotic than that. 'We will see those up close later,' she
promises. The Pyramids spin by like a three-dimensional
postcard and I still cannot believe we have seen them. I
feel like Mum has discovered them all over again and hug
her.
I ask about the large expanse of low buildings between
the roads.
'That is the Dead City,' Mary explains. 'It is the cemetery.'
Liz starts to fan herself as if she's never heard the like of
a graveyard in a town.
'It's not so dead,' Mary goes on. 'Lots of the poor live in
there, perhaps half a million Cairenes between here and our
other big City of the Dead.'
Now Liz is beginning to voice her outrage at such savagery.
They want to be close to their loved ones,' Mum says.
'Yes,' Mary agrees, and smiles happily. 'It is important to
be close to family, though many are poor and have no choice
but to live there. But, yes, it is a comfort to be near our
ancestors and we have a long tradition in my country of living
close to family graves.'
'There's a lot of building work going on,' I say, pointing
to unfinished roofs with steel bars sticking up into the bluest
sky I have ever seen. It's as much to change the subject and
stop Liz short as anything else.
Mary laughs and says something to the driver in Arabic.
He laughs too, but not in a mean way. Mary turns around
in her seat again. 'That is to avoid paying taxes. If a building
is finished it is more expensive.'
'"Nothing is certain but death and taxes",' Mum says, half
quoting Benjamin Franklin's famous phrase.
I am thrilled that she has dug this up and bursting with
happiness that we have come here, and nothing Liz can do
will spoil that. Then Mum says 'taxis' to reinforce her point
and I want to phone my father immediately and tell him the
funniest thing: that the only two things we can be sure of
in this life are death and taxis. Everyone looks at me as tears
run down my cheeks. The expression in their eyes is unmistakable.
They think I'm a loony.

The shaving mug was cracked and generally knackered. It
should be binned, Simon Hill knew, but he was finding
it difficult to cull the most personal of his fathers things.
How was it possible to choose some beloved objects above
others? Why was this particular item giving him such
trouble? Perhaps it was that this was something his dad
had used every day of his life since he was given it. As far
as Simon could remember it had been a Christmas present
from Mum. He'd had no such trouble with the brush as it
had long ago gone bald and been ditched by the old man
himself. The current one was no better and could easily
be jettisoned. He forced himself to take a rational approach.
He loved this mug, would use it himself and be cheered
every day by seeing the Blue Delft figures. He set it aside
along with the ivory comb, the sort that was now illegal
and available only in the most secretive and expensive of
stores. He could still picture his father running that through
his hair every hour, maintaining his quiff with the aid of a
little brilliantine at first and then on to gel, no less, in his
latter years. In poorer days it had been water and his hair's
natural oils. 'Costs nothing to make an effort,' he'd say. And
there had been hard times, and hunger, and cold. Proudest day of the old man's life? Simon's graduation from Oxford.
First of the family to go to university. He looked at the few
possessions which represented the life he was tidying away.
There was no one to remember Dad but him now. Saddest
day of the old man's life? There were many, but probably
realising he had no grandchild to leave his all to - the 'all'
being his cherished opinions and the tiny insurance policy
that had been severely depleted by the last stay in the old
folks home.
And what would Simon do with the few items he had
chosen to hang on to? Put them in a box alongside his
mother's things, in yet another attic? At least when they had
chosen those mementoes, Simon and his dad had been
together, grieving but busy. This was the second time he had
stuffed the remnants of a life into black sacks for charity.
He wondered how many of his dad's things would find new
homes and how many end up in landfill as if they had never
mattered.
He was getting maudlin. There was too much to be done
for that: moving house, the new job . . . and getting the old
guy back from that ruddy station. He would give a piece
of his mind to this Fulton woman when she came swanning
back from wherever the hell she'd flown off to. Cufflinks
went into the staying pile. Ditto the navy tie with the paisley
design. His dad had been quite the dandy, really. And it
was Simon's own stupid fault he'd left the box of ashes on
the platform.

The guide gave them a pep talk before they entered the
museum building. This would be the largest collection of
Egyptian artefacts they would ever visit and it was imperative
they stick together, she warned. Liz took it upon herself
to repeat everything Mary said, in spite of the fact that they
were both speaking English. Everyone looked a little as if
they hated her then, especially her husband Bernard. He
also looked like a man whose hangover had started to hit
home. The Merries, Sue and Mags, just giggled, the naughty
girls of the class. Jim and Edna bore the hallmarks of a
couple in the aftermath of a tight-lipped, hissy row. The first
days of a holiday were always the most tense, Kitty thought,
everyone over-determined to have a good time and finding
it impossible to relax. She herself never relaxed any more
so she didn't miss it like the rest of the holidaymakers. She
rarely ever made an instant decision either as it could have
so many consequences undreamed of in any other person's
normal day. But she had practice of that, sneaking around
with Dan for so long. This pulled her up, the fact that she
might think about them in this way. She felt a faint uneasy
sense of betraying them both then but buried it and moved
on: now was not the time, this was not the place.
Museum-goers thronged past and Kitty linked one arm
firmly through her mothers. She was surprised to feel sad
Rita clinging on to her free arm. After that they entered
the place to be amazed. And of all the things that impressed
Kitty there, Mays recall of facts about Ancient Egypt was
the most astounding. She identified Pharaohs and gods.
She chatted happily with Mary about Osiris and Isis,
Tutankhamen and Rameses, mummification and theories
about potential treasures still to be unearthed. But any time
Kitty asked her a question, her mother looked as if she'd
just encountered a crazy woman and pointedly clocked their
arm-lock as if a stranger had latched on to her but she was
too polite to brush her off. I am not part of that section of
her brain, Kitty thought. I do not feature in this area that
seems untouched by the disease. If we could isolate that
and flood it with her lifetime's experiences, perhaps we
could beat the thing.
They hit the Khan al-Khalili Bazaar, fresh meat to the
traders, and Kitty spent her time forcing things back into
different displays, promising May she had bought them all
and annoying the shopkeepers as they went by. She had
learned the words for 'No, thank you' from Mary earlier and
chanted 'La, shukran' over and over. The urge to point at
her mother and then at her head was tempting, but she did
not. My mother is not mad, she reminded herself, she has
simply lost her mind.

Simon Hill was tired of goodbyes. He stood on the threshold
of another. His whole life was made up of them. His father's
job had moved the family from town to town, so no childhood
friendship could ever last long. He didn't have siblings
but spent a lot of time alone and with his own thoughts.
After a while he found it easier not to get too involved with
anyone else and kept acquaintances at a safe distance. He
rarely expected to see anyone again once they'd moved on,
and he rarely did. University was the longest consecutive
time he'd spent in one place. Four years was just asking for
trouble. It was inevitable, he thought, looking back, that he
would finally fall hard. And he did. Her name was Louisa
Walcott and he hadn't a hope of emerging unscathed from
that experience. He didn't.
The first time he saw her, he thought she was the living
embodiment of the description 'fragrant'. She spoke to him,
which was a shock. Later she told him it was for a dare but
she kept it up because she found him 'quirky', which latterly
morphed into 'creepy' and was then accompanied by a range
of singularly unfragrant sounds and gestures. She was a petite
blonde who played on her diminutive size, wore a velvet
hairband, belted coats to emphasise her tiny waist, and
tottered across the college cobblestones in impossible heels,
refusing to give in to fogeyish tradition. 'Next they'll be fining
me for not wearing my sword,' she'd declare. This Simon
took to be evidence of rare wit, falling further under the
spell that would almost do for him. Any glance she threw
exclusively at him knocked another nail in his coffin. He was
hopelessly in love and easy pickings. It was still chastening
to realise that one year's love could be another's hopeless
infatuation, with the twenty-twenty vision of hindsight. He
wondered if all experiences were transmuted in this way or
if some resisted the prism of time. Even his speciality, history,
sometimes failed to stand solid. Everything was subject to
interpretation, when you thought about it.
Back in the day, Louisa told him what to wear, where to
go, what to eat, how to behave. Simon had to hand one thing
to her, though: she awakened in him a passion that he would
never otherwise have suspected he'd harboured. It took them
both by surprise. He was awkward in company, or 'socially
autistic' as Louisa liked to declare, but a wonder in bed. He
discovered there was nothing he didn't like to do for a woman
and, although he'd never sustained any lengthy dalliance
thereafter, he had no shortage of transient admirers, especially
as reviews of his skill were disseminated throughout the
sisterhood in whatever town he fetched up in. His complete
lack of moral hang-ups helped as well. Marriage was someone
else's problem, not his. If a woman was hitched, he really
couldn't care less. It wasn't mentioned. There was only the
here and now of an affair which always remained discreet
and usually brief. The instant commitment was suggested or
scandal was threatened, it ended. Sure, there were vague
regrets but only in a sentimental way. He had never fallen
in love, or if he had it had passed unnoticed and was
consequently a great deal less earth-shattering than he had
been led to believe.
Now he was headed for Pennick to take up his new post.
He bade farewell to the bungalow he had detested in Kings
Lynn, with its noisy plumbing and woodchip wallpaper, and
turned his back on that chapter of his life. He wondered
what had happened to Louisa. He'd been surprised to see
her once on a London street, carrying a little extra weight
and looking a little drunk. He'd walked on, as he always had,
without looking back.
It was the Great Sphinx that Kitty loved most on that first
day. It was noble, chipped, forlorn and steadfast. She looked
at the photo in her guidebook that showed it buried up to
its chin in sand, over a century ago, and then back at the
excavated monument. The sea of sand still lay all around,
waiting for the next chance to reclaim its treasure. It would
ebb and approach, taking a sliver here, a detail there, ineffably
powerful. It had all the time in the world, having
seen off generations of men. She wondered how much more
lay hidden beneath the dusty, innocent surface of the land.
The myth of the Sphinx was that Napoleon's men had used
it for target practice during the eighteenth century but,
according to Mary, this was not the case. They all chuckled
at the way the truth should never be allowed to get in the
way of a good story. Beyond, the Pyramids were swarming
with visitors: buses rushed their cargoes back and forth
through the desert; cars and camels buzzed about the pale
triangles set in relief against a turquoise sky. Everyone
seemed to be in a tearing hurry to devour history and pick
over its bones, covering as many millennia as possible
before purchasing plastic reminders to display to neighbours
at home as proof of a good time.
Kitty had to be herded forcibly from her perch to join
the expedition to a nearby perfumery where Liz bought
knock-offs of famous brands and got a lot of free ornate
perfume bottles to go with them. The guide discreetly stayed
behind to collect her commission and Kitty was glad that
Mary had really had the last laugh there. At the minibus,
May pointed to a fast food joint across from the car park,
within sight of the ancient Sphinx, and said, The Colonel is
everywhere.' They took in the two wonders, each instantly
recognisable, each relevant in its different way. Kitty knew
which one she preferred. As she ushered May on to the bus
her mother asked, 'Are we not getting a chicken bucket?' as
if the world had gone totally mad.
They were in the foyer bar when Rita shyly enquired
about May's condition. She kept her voice low so as not to
alert the rest of the group, who were debating which of the
hotel's restaurants to hit. Rita was demolishing her third large
glass of wine. Kitty checked that May was otherwise occupied,
and apparently she was, reading a brochure and looking
like it made sense to her. It's Alzheimer's,' she confirmed.
'She's just about tipping into late onset.' The admission
exhausted her and she took a hefty swig of Egyptian beer.
'So strange,' Rita said. 'And sad,' she added, after a beat.
'Here I am, drinking to forget, and there she is, unable to
remember.'
Kitty took in the lines of disappointment across Rita's
forehead, dragging at her eyes and the corners of her mouth.
Her makeup was carefully applied and maintained but it
couldn't hide the evidence of her disintegration, etched
deeper by each night's drinking and each new days sadness
and thirst.
Rita seemed to think she should confide a secret too. 'I used
to be Liz's sister-in-law. Still am, actually, though he's gone
now.' She grimaced and tried to look wryly accepting.
Younger model, cliched as that might be. Liz keeps me around
to torture me with kindness, and to assuage the general
family guilt and feel better by comparison.' She shrugged at
these notions as if she hadn't decided their worth and thought
it redundant to do so anyway.
'Cheers,' said May, joining their conversation.
"Cheers,' Rita agreed, holding her glass aloft.
Kitty looked from one to the other and then down at her
own hands. They were all separate and lonely in their own
way. Her mother was trapped in a body whose mind was on
the mitch and about to depart permanently, Rita was now
surplus to requirements in a life she'd thought secure and
safe, and Kitty was a spinster of a parish located in the midst
of nowhere, a nobody to all but a handful of people. She
wondered how many doors were shut in the faces of stranded
women just like her all over the world each day. Kitty thought
of Donna then, and how she was a lonely person too. She
rose to buy another round of drinks, having no other answer
to their separate problems.
'Is it someone's birthday?' May wanted to know. 'Shouldn't
we have a cake?'

The brown paper parcel was tied with string and her name
was written on the front. It crackled like a fire as May's mam
turned it from side to side, checking the postmark again and
again, but all it gave away was that it came from Dublin.
There was a card, too, and Daddy's writing said 'Happy
Birthday to the prettiest girl in town'. Her mam left the
package on the kitchen table and went out into the yard,
and banged about there while May opened her present. It
was a pink dress and the most beautiful thing she had ever
seen and she squealed as she held it up to her. It had puff
sleeves and a big frill all around the hem and there was a
sash tied in a bow at the back. She ran out to ask if she
could put it on and her mother snarled back that it was her
dress and she could do what she liked with it. It didn't sound
like she thought the dress was lovely, but May didn't care
because it was from her daddy and maybe it meant he was
coming back and that would make everyone happy, not
just her.
She went upstairs and laid it on the bed and stared at it
a long time. And then she realised that she couldn't wear it
that day or any other and suddenly tears spilled down her
face. She thought she'd never be happy again, and neither
would anyone in that house. They'd be like princesses in a
fairytale who were enchanted so that they could never smile
or laugh. And suddenly she hated her dad because he was
the one who had put this spell on them.
She marched downstairs and out to her mother and said,
'I don't like it. It's too frilly and stupid. Only a kid would
wear it.'
Her mother had smiled then, breaking the curse a little.
Later on May rolled the dress into a ball and hid it in the wardrobe. She couldn't send it back. There was no return address on the parcel because Daddy didn't want to be found.

Mum is having trouble with her dinner. She's sitting looking
at it, holding her cutlery poised above the plate in a puzzled
sort of way. As odd as it may sound, I think she's forgotten
how to cut and scoop up food. I don't want this to come to
anyone else's attention so I lean across and ask, 'Can I taste
that?' poking a vegetable, stabbing it with my fork in a slow,
clear movement and bringing it to my mouth. Mum follows
suit. We move on to the meat and in time she gets the hang
of chopping it up and I leave her to finish at her own pace.
I'm glad we aren't eating anything complicated with bones
in it. I feel unpleasantly hot and sweaty, yet shivering at the
realisation that Mum has lost a skill so vital to her. I hope
it's only temporary. She has no problem with dessert and,
once she's done with it, I get us out of there pronto on
pretext of needing our sleep before the early start tomorrow.
In the brown room she watches television, some music
videos, then asks, 'Why are the little men dancing in the
box?' I am starting to get seriously worried that she won't
be up to the rest of this holiday when she suddenly turns
to face me and says, 'We're all right, Kitty, aren't we? We're
doing okay?'
I could wail with joy. My mother is back. I fight for my
voice. 'We are, Mum, we're doing fine.'
'I'm so confused,' she admits. 'And I get so frightened,
Kitty. I never know when I'll be back, and when I am it's
for less and less time. It scares me.'
I can feel tears threaten but I mustn't let them out. This is a moment to be savoured and dealt with properly so it's
not ruined by sentiment. There'll be plenty of opportunity
for that. I put my arms around her. 'I'm here, Mum, and so
long as I am, you will be fine. Better than fine. And I will
always be with you, so we're sorted.'
'I love you,' she whispers.
'I love you,' I say.
'And when I swim out into the Red Sea you are to let me
go, do you hear?'
I stiffen. I wasn't expecting this, not now.
Her voice hardens. 'Do you hear me, Kitty? You are to
let me go.' She pulls back and stares at me, hard. Then she
puts the knife in. 'If you love me, you will let me go.'
A song comes on the television that distracts her and she
wriggles away again. She gets off the bed and begins to
dance. I am torn apart and she is dancing. It strikes me that
this sums up our situation as well as anything else.

The station at Pennick was beginning to assume an unusual
significance for Simon Hill. He supposed he could have
travelled with the removal van but the driver had smelled
of cigarette smoke and he rather suspected the cab would
stink to high heaven. So he went by rail with a few cases
cluttered about him. Now, as he stood on the platform in
the wake of the train, he counted his bags, determined not
to abandon any more of his life in this place than he had
already.
A man of his own age, with a pleasant face and faded red
hair, asked if he needed a hand and Simon said he'd kill for
a cab. They agreed that probably wouldn't be necessary and
walked through to the station forecourt and a telephone with
a direct line to the taxi office. With a car on its "way, the man
shook his hand and turned to go. Simon fumbled in his pockets
for a tip.
'Ah, no, no,' the man said, shaking his head almost sadly
at the mistake. 'I'm Dan Gibbs, the Station Manager. I'm
not a porter.'
Simon burned with embarrassment to have made such a
gaffe but thought that to apologise would only make things
worse so instead he introduced himself. 'Simon Hill, idiot
and new Town Librarian.'
'Happens all the time,' Dan said easily, though Simon
suspected it did not. 'Have the powers-that-be finally
managed to retire Mona Fletcher?' he asked, clearly intrigued
that such a thing could be accomplished.
'Yes. I hear she is a hundred and forty-five years old now
and was finally made to see sense.'
'As long as she can still walk, you'll never be rid of her.
She'll camp on your doorstep. Rumour is she made a deal
with the devil centuries ago that she'll never lose the power
of speech. Be prepared to be told many times where you're
going wrong and how she likes to do things which is, of
course, the right way'
Simon wondered, briefly, if he and this man might be
friends. 'Advice gratefully accepted, sir. While I have your
ear, might I ask about the lady who runs your Lost and
Found?'
'Kitty?' Dan's eyes took on a kind of shine.
'I believe she's currently on leave.'
'Yes. Egypt. Why?'
Simon indicated the station office. 'She seems to have my
father in there, in a box.' He'd rarely felt more self-conscious.
First, he'd made a fool of himself offering this man a tip,
and now he was topping it off by admitting he'd lost his own
dad's final remains.
'I've seen him.' Dan nodded, as if all was perfectly in
order.
'So, should I collect him now or what?'
'If I were you, I'd wait till Kitty returns. That way, things
will be done properly. Besides, she'd like to meet you, I'm
sure. She takes a great interest in reuniting people with their
possessions.'
'Fine,' Simon said, unsure that it was really and wondering
if he would ever see his father again.
SIX


We love the boat and feel all Agatha Christie as we pose on
deck. I try to relax but I'm anxious about the low railings
and the fact that we are now afloat on a deep river. I
encourage Mum to stand back from the edge whenever
possible and hope she'll get the message. I am going to have
to be extra-vigilant on this leg of our trip.

The Nile is shockingly serene as we glide along. The banks
sprout postcard-pretty reeds and rushes, of the sort Moses
would have known. He sailed in a little cradle made of them
at the start, didn't he? And was rescued by a Pharaoh's
daughter. We still have my Moses basket in our attic, ready
for my child should I ever be blessed. That's not looking so
likely as the years tick on. Beyond the water is the narrow
delta of lush greenery this river has nourished for centuries.
Behind that we see desert and sky. The sand is never far
away, waiting. The sky watches as it always has done, and
will forever. We hear donkeys braying somewhere in the
distance. The only sign of modern life is the occasional
concrete bridge with a few cars and trucks passing over it.
Mum settles in a deckchair and dozes. She is like a cat
basking in a sunbeam, a lazy half-smile on her sleeping face.
There is timelessness in the air, the ghosts of millions of
other people who have sailed this watery superhighway. Other
cruise ships pass by and we wave to the passengers without
feeling foolish.
If Liz doesn't shut up wondering about dinner, and
whether it's 'safe' to have a massage from the young man on
the middle deck designated to provide the service, I may
kill her and then we'll have our very own Death on the Nile.
Rita is hitting the cocktails, the men the beer, and the Merries
are checking out Egyptian wine. Edna is caught in Liz's line
of fire and unable to escape. She looks as if she could murder
too so Rita puts a green-coloured concoction into her hand
and she downs it without hesitation.
Our first stop is Luxor. In spite of having been to the
museum in Cairo and around the Pyramids, I am unprepared
for these temples. They have a whole different kind
of grandeur. I love the huge columns, set stolidly in the earth
while soaring towards the open sky; the avenues of mini
sphinxes with rams' heads; the wealth of minor detail like
the ducks and seeds depicted in the hieroglyphs. I love this
flat art, its calm regularity. There seems to be such order in
the illustrations by the different dynasties represented here
when in fact they amount to a fantastical mishmash of beliefs
and events, all cobbled together. The walls are teeming with
messages. At Karnak we see the name of Alexander the Great
hewn into the wall, part of his prize for being the first Greek
to conquer Egypt. I don't wonder that he wanted this
fabulous jewel of a land.
Mum touches the carved stones, delighting in the sun's
warmth on them and the beauty of the artwork. It reminds
me of when she touches the photographs in her albums at
home, hoping to make a connection, retrieve a memory.
Those are her hieroglyphics. I point the camera at her amidst
it all and suddenly wonder who will want this record after
we are gone. There is only her, and me, and Dad, I guess,
but if the natural order is followed they will go first and then
its all down to me. I have no children of my own. I have no
siblings and therefore no nieces or nephews, no cousins. No
one will keep pictures of us framed on a sideboard for
remembrance. We'll end up in boxes of old knick-knacks at
car boot sales, sold off to a smart boy in advertising or comedy
who'll make the pictures into funny cards with a witty slogan
that people will laugh at and buy to send to their friends,
with no notion who the subjects really are and even less
interest.
These thoughts make me long for Dan but I know that
he isn't mine either. He can never hang my portrait on his
wall. When I tell him of my adventures, I must hope that
he locks my stories safely away within him and doesn't forget the details that make them important to me. He needs all
of his powers of recall, and cannot rely on visual prompts
like photographs, because he is someone else's husband. If
I take him home a gift, it must be something he can keep
at the station which will seem nothing out of the ordinary
between friends. Because he is someone else's husband, not mine.
Atop one wall, far above our heads, is the clear outline
of another, part of a much later church. This holy place was
built when the temple was buried beneath the sand. Now,
the exposed architecture is like a barometer of the ages. It
looks like history's version of those marks parents make in
kitchens or bedrooms to chart their kids' growth as they
shoot up, becoming more ready by the year for the final
leavetaking. Protected under eaves here and there we spot
flashes of colour, undimmed by the centuries of weather that
have scorched and lashed this place. Such endurance is
astonishing.
We see graffiti from past centuries chiselled into the
ancient stone. There are the names of eighteenth-century
travellers declaring emphatically that they were here.
Beautifully done, and in Latin, but vandalism nonetheless.
And who were these people? They are long gone, and their
signatures now tell us no more than some instantly forgettable
names, but how they wanted to be remembered. Their
daubings may now vindicate their quest for perpetual remembrance
but are as confusing to many as the more ancient
illustrations were before the Rosetta Stone was discovered.
I will soon need a deciphering system of my own: the time
is coming when I will have to interpret my mothers needs,
her pain, her life. I try to notice every detail about her to
help me when that happens, but there is so much to learn
and I am unsure what I should be concentrating on the
hardest. For now, she is happy to pose among these relics
of the ancient world, the woman I recognise who is slowly
being taken over from within, hollowed out, a shell left
behind after the invasion of the body snatchers.

They had to move to a smaller place, Mam said. They were
broke and her job didn't bring in enough and 'your father
isn't providing for us any more'. She made it sound like it
was the girls' fault that their dad existed at all, let alone had
gone and left them and wasn't sending enough money - or
any money. And while she was at it Mam didn't want to hear
any whingeing about the move or where they would live or
their rooms or anything at all... and that especially went
for May. Ellens lip began to quiver and Mam told her to
button it tight or else. They trudged behind a car filled with
their stuff, each carrying bags that were too heavy and big.
It was like following a hearse. The local children ran alongside,
laughing and pointing. A huge, grey cloud followed,
just waiting to piss down on them. It looked as angry as
Mam.
The new place was smelly, like too many rashers and
cabbage had been cooked in it and other stuff that was nasty
but hard to name. May's shoes stuck to the floor in the
hallway and made a sucking noise as she walked. It was
freezing cold. Her nose began to drip. Ellen looked as if the
world had ended. Mam's face was set in hard lines. Granny
Larkin was waiting for them in the tiny kitchen. She had lit
the range and a kettle was boiling for a 'nice cup of tea'.
'It'll take more than that to fix things,' Mam warned.
'I have fruit cake,' Gran said, lightning quick, but that
didn't make Mam smile either.
The girls were sent upstairs to unpack their things in the
dingy box room. Ellen wept openly, out of sight of the adults.
'What about my friends?' she wanted to know.
'You'll still see them at school,' May said.
'Yes, but they'll all know we live here in this horrible
place. They'll all know that we're paupers. I hate Daddy
and I hate Mam and I hate you. I hate you all. You've
ruined my life.'
Even at the time May knew that was unfair but she had
no answer to the accusation. And she thought Ellen would
cry it out of her system anyhow. May didn't like this new
house either. It didn't feel good, like maybe it was haunted.
She was terrified then and ran down to ask Granny if there
were ghosts here, and was shooed outside for her nonsense.
She kicked about the filthy yard and presently the rain
began to lash down as she'd known it would. A horrible
thought occurred to her. They had moved house, so how
would Daddy know where to find them when he came to
his senses? She was certain then that she would never see him again. May began to cry, in the rain, so no one could
see her. She cried her heart out.

Pennick Library was situated above the town's Courthouse
in an echoing nineteenth-century building, the folly of a man
now unremembered but named each time Burleigh Hall was
mentioned. Policemen, lawyers and accused jostled past each other in the entrance. The overpowering stench was of urine
from the neglected public toilets nearby. As Simon passed
through a dishevelled man grabbed his arm and hawed stale
alcohol and regret into his face, begging him to make sure
he wasn't 'banged up and forgotten'. He was still drunk, by
the smell of him.
'Now, now, Ricky,' a copper chided, 'let the new librarian
be.' When Simon looked surprised, he shrugged. 'Detective,
arn' I?'
Ricky let go of him and was ushered inside.
Simon climbed the grand, sweeping marble staircase to
the library proper, with its hushed atmosphere and pleasing
familiar smell of books. He gave himself a moment to study
his new domain. He loved the way that rows of books were
always so orderly, no matter how different the sizes and
colours of the spines: somehow harmony was reached when
they lined the shelves together. He had visited this place
before but today was special as now it was in his charge. Or
might have been, if Mona Fletcher hadn't taken it upon
herself to stay for an interim period, to 'settle him in', as
she put it. When asked how long that would be exactly she
was vague and muttered about pieces of string. He would
have to scotch that, and soon. In the meantime he was
mesmerised by the sight of the four black wires that adorned
her upper lip, two on either side of her badly painted Cupid's
bow. How could she not pluck them? he wondered. Were
they incidental to her, or invisible? A man could become
obsessed.
The library was laid out in a regular fashion but, as with
all institutions of its kind, it bore the stamp of the people
who ran it and those who frequented it. So there was a large
crime section (fitting, given its location above the court,
Simon thought), lots of easy reading and popular fiction (he
was uneasy with the terms chick-lit and lad-lit, or even lite
lit for that matter), and a generous local history holding
which was the part he was most looking forward to curating.
The local Historical Society stored many of their more
precious manuscripts here and ran cultural evenings from
the public meeting room. Pennick was a town with an interesting
if much-neglected past, he felt.
'We've had a run on Egyptology,' Mona told him, 'because
of the Fultons going there.'
'Yes,' Simon acknowledged, nodding and desperate to
show his grasp of local events. 'Kitty and her mum,' he said,
shameless in his attempt to appear to know more than he
did.
Mona blinked and the bristles quivered. It was hard to
be sure if these were good or bad omens. Simon thought it
best to be prepared for either eventuality.
'May has Alzheimer's so, as Kitty herself says, she'll enjoy
it but probably won't remember that she did.'
They both smiled at this gallows humour then separated.
Simon watched his predecessor make for a quiet nook behind
Fiction M - N and knew she'd be close enough to keep tabs
on him all day.
Most of his time would be spent in the Chief Librarian's
office out back so he went there to unpack the box of essentials
he had sent on ahead. His father's shaving mug now
held pencils and pens; a photograph of his parents on their
wedding day was placed by the telephone alongside a pointed,
wooden letter opener his mother had picked up once in an
Oxfam shop in Brighton. It would serve as a handy weapon
if Mona were ever to lie in ambush, he reckoned. He was
of the opinion that the more natural light an office had, the
more important the occupant was. He had two large windows
to himself here and was happy with his lot.
He spent the morning migrating files from the huge and
outdated computer on his desk to the laptop which would
serve in its place from now on. Coffee appeared at what
seemed an appropriate time and he had little else to do with
anyone or anything as he gradually immersed himself in his
new environment. He enjoyed the patient stealth of the
takeover, getting to know the system, but most of all he
wanted to be out amongst the books and records. That must
wait, however. A few more days wouldn't hurt. There were
lifetimes of knowledge and scholarly endeavour waiting for
him out there and his eventual discovery of them would be
all the sweeter for this delay.

Kitty and May had to walk through two sister ships docked
side by side, to get to theirs. On the first, May saw the reception
desk and turned left for their cabin, but Kitty explained
they were not yet on their boat. This must be like Mum's
head, she thought, everything looking similar but not quite
right. May's world was through the looking glass now. After
another false attempt to turn for their room, May checked
with Kitty on the last ship before a look of relief settled on
her face and she darted for home.
All around them big cruisers were filled with curious
holidaymakers. No one knows exactly where we are now,
Kitty thought, but for a group of strangers we have just
met. She was tempted to send Dan a witty text, to establish
a link with somewhere else, but resisted. Besides, he'd be
at home now, with Donna and out of bounds.
Kitty was wearing a recently bought turquoise pashmina
and May a vivid green one. They both felt swanky and swell.
Kitty had stared longingly at a djellabah in the textile shop,
one of the long tunics worn by the local men, and would
have liked to have bought it for Dan. Instead it was now
bagged up and destined for her dad. The tourists hung over
the ships' rails, catching garments tossed up to them in plastic
bags from hawkers in the little boats surrounding the liners.
If they liked what they caught, they kept the item and reused
the bags to throw money back down to the vendors. The
commerce was rapid, fun. Tonight was a special party night
on the ship with dancing before and after dinner and they
were all gearing up for a good time.
The cabin stewards had left towels on the beds, folded in
the shape of a turtle. May was enchanted. The lad responsible
knocked on the door to ask if the ladies liked their treat,
on the off chance of baksheesh, but Kitty held politely firm.
They'd be cleaned out if they rewarded every such gesture.
May was upset when they were forced to take the creature
apart to dry themselves after they had washed. Kitty
distracted her with a cereal bar and felt guilty for treating
her like a toddler, or worse. Still, the ruse worked and no
tears were spilled, another minor victory. One step forward,
Kitty thought, but who knows how many back there will be.
She looked at her own reflection in the small bathroom
mirror. May's blue eyes, translated to hazel, stared back at her.
She had inherited Granny Fulton's hair. Out of sight were the
legs that took after her dad's, no bad thing as he had run crosscountry
in his youth and had a shapely calf and turn of the
heel. Her hands might have been original to her, but somehow
she didn't think so. She was nature's remembering, a commemoration
in flesh of all the generations who had gone before.
We are all variations on a theme, Kitty thought, genetic shadows.
She sat back on the bed while May brushed her hair, chattering
of things she didn't know and couldn't recognise.

'Where's my pink dress?' Mum asks.
To the best of my knowledge she doesn't own a pink dress.
It may not do to point this out. 'I haven't seen it,' I reply.
Ever, I might add.
She frowns. Who knows what hoops her mind is going
through, trying to figure this news out.
I left it in the thing.'
No hint as to what 'the thing' is, but it's non-essential information
anyhow so I won't let it bother me. She fusses about
looking under cushions and pillows. She tries the loo. I can
hear muffled swearing. She reappears, red faced and agitated.
'I don't know who told you to come here but you are no help
at all,' she spits at me, then stops and gives me a good long
look. 'If you've stolen it, you'll be in big trouble,' -he warns.
I don't want to start an argument so I keep my peace.
'My daughter will deal with you when she gets home,'
Mum says. For a moment time slows and I realise that this
is the first time she has admitted, out loud, to not knowing
me. I can feel my heart lurch painfully and an ache creeps
into my limbs. I suddenly feel very tired and hollow. But I
can't share that with her, my closest of the close. She means
no harm. She just doesn't remember me. I try to speak very
evenly. It'll turn up,' I say, though I cannot guarantee that
it will. And it may not matter. By now the pink dress may
be consigned to history, its memory tangled irretrievably in
the proteins advancing through her brain.
Tears sparkle in her eyes. 'I want to wear it to the party,'
she says.
"We'll find you another pretty thing.'
She snuffles and nods but I can't be sure she's heard or
understood me.

A bell rang and drums began to beat in the ship. It was the
summons to the lounge and the inmates spewed forth from
their cabins in traditional garb. Kitty had earlier envisioned
Liz in a bellydancer's costume, an image which had greatly
unsettled her. Thankfully Liz had settled for a spangled skull
cap and flowing robes, the safe option chosen by the majority
of those on board, a Euro-pudding of nationalities with
Germans, English and Italians most heavily represented, and
in that order.
The captain made a speech and even told an Egyptian
joke, first recorded in 1600BC. 'How do you entertain a
bored Pharaoh?' he asked, and the ship's pursar obliged by
saying, 'I don't know, how do you entertain a bored Pharaoh?'
The captain smiled widely before announcing, 'Sail a boatload
of young women draped only in fishing nets down the
Nile and urge the Pharaoh to go and catch a fish.' The assembled
company laughed. Kitty was unsure if this proved 'the
old ones are best', but warmed to the man for tying in a bit
of history too.
The captain then introduced every last head of department
and, although it was a lengthy process, Kitty found it
affecting to see how proud they all were of their ship and
the experience it offered their guests. When his crew
members were all identified and praised, the captain
announced that there would now be some dancing. May took
to the floor with the Merries. She whirled about in ever
quickening circles. She waved to Kitty and shouted, 'Look
at me, Ellen, I'm dancing.' Then she laughed and whooped
and twirled even faster. That's another first, Kitty thought.
She called me Ellen, her sisters name. Suddenly her attention
was back on the dance floor where the Norfolk dervish
had collided with some Italian guests' drinks and much
excited chatter accompanied the clean up. It was minor but
attentively clocked by the ship's complement.
Kitty steadied May and took her away for a nonalcoholic
cocktail. Her mother looked like a younger Kitty used to do,
on a sugar high and nearly-in-trouble territory. We seem to
have swapped, she thought. Some are born parents and
others have it thrust upon them. They had just got their
drinks at the bar when Kitty heard an English woman's voice
pronounce 'nutter'.
She swivelled round to face the room and the Faraway
entourage looked guiltily away. Throughout the lounge
whispers were exchanged behind discreetly raised hands.
She smarted for her mother and the way she was
misjudged. She hated these people for the way they drew
their easy, mean-spirited conclusions. Mum won't recall
this in the morning, she thought, she's already forgotten
it. She feels a primitive joy, without any need for explanation
or guilt. The others will remember. They will inspect
it and reach judgement. What use is memory if it only
festers grudges?

I don't think my heart-rate even quickens much when we
have our moments. I have learned to be calm and deal
with whatever has arisen. Every day has its new crises, one
after the other. They don't necessarily follow from or feed
off each other. There is no progression and it's important
to remember that; they are unconnected. But cumulatively
they are wearing and I cannot afford to let them grind me
down. I cannot lose my sense of proportion. This disease
is not my fault but it is my problem.
After her diagnosis, when Mum wasn't sleeping well and
consequently neither was I, the deprivation made me jittery
and emotional. Tears sapped my energy. They still do. As a
result, I have learned to cope without giving way. Panic is
counter-productive. But scalding embarrassment can be a
problem.
We have to sit with the Brits because we are with the
same tour company. I cannot meet their eyes. Mum is oblivious
for which I envy her. The meal tonight is even better
than usual so that fills a void in conversation. Everyone
concentrates hard on the food. When Mum goes for dessert
I hear Liz clear her throat and think, Here it comes, but it
is Rita who speaks first.
'You have your hands more than full with your mother,'
she begins.
I want to dissolve into my chair but keep my back
ramrod straight waiting for the insult. A silence settles
over the table with my anxiety screeching above it on a
frequency I am sure they can all hear. The background is
filled with Italian chatter and the more glottal tones of
the Germans. They don't notice the tense atmosphere at
our table but the waiter does and backs off. Rita's voice
is maddeningly even.
'You're exhausted dealing with her by yourself and you're
not having much of a holiday as a result.'
She's correct about me being wrecked but I am enjoying
the trip. I love Egypt. I take a few deep breaths, conserving
myself for her next shot, ready for whatever they have decided
to do with the peskier members of the party.
'We've been talking about how we can help.'
That gives me proper pause. Help? I hold my breath.
'From now on, we will take her when you need a rest.
Starting with tonight. Why don't I see her to your cabin to
get ready for bed and you can have a quiet drink on the
deck. By yourself.'
The last sentence seems to be an instruction to the others
as well as to me. I am to be left alone. Fine. I am still stinging
from the embarrassment of it all. I honestly don't know where
to put myself, where to look even. But while I draw breath
for a cutting reply, I realise that I haven't listened properly
all evening. These people are offering their help to me. The
whispers I thought so condemnatory were in fact discussions
about how to ease my burden. One of them said 'mother'
not 'nutter' earlier after the dancing incident. I feel such a
prat, I want to cry. I want to cry anyhow, from gratitude and
the sheer relief of discovering that there can be good in
people even when you think they are conspiring against you.
Where I saw malice, there was only concern.
Mags says, 'My gran went the same way, though she was
a lot older.'
'I wish you could have known her before,' I say.
'We know her now and she's lovely,' Sue points out.
'Just a handful,' adds Mags.
I do cry a little then. 'Thank you. Thank you all so much
. . . and, yes,' I say, as Mum plants herself down at the table
again with her largest plate of goodies yet from the dessert
buffet.
'My eyes are bigger than my belly,' she tells us.
These strangers all smile kindly upon her and I am
chastened.
Later, Mum goes off to the cabin with Rita without a
murmur: she's as familiar to her as I am, after all. I wonder
if she still has some innate meter for gauging other people's
goodness. I hope so because everyone is a potential stranger
to Mum now and she'd be easy picking for a malevolent one.
I feel a tug inside, seeing her go, but she looks happy. As
instructed, I take a glass of white wine to the top deck and
luxuriate in the peace of the night.
The sky is a downy dark blue with stars sprinkled generously
across it, more than I remember seeing in a long time.
I feel I should make a wish then I remember this is old light
they are shedding. Those twinkles are long burned out before
their glitter reaches us. There's probably a spare and shiny
bit of the Space Programme up there, durable and endlessly
orbiting; it might be a better bet for giving my wish a chance
of success.
I wonder what Dan is up to. Is he thinking of me, as I
am of him? Are there stars in the sky over Pennick tonight?
There are, of course, its just a matter of being able to see
them. Their remains are out there alongside the flotsam of
our efforts to tame space; all that hardware waiting for the
earth's magnetism to pull it down in flames. Everything
crashes and burns in the end.

Donna miscarried and for a dark time I thought it was
somehow deliberate. I am not proud to admit that. Where
previously Dan and Donna's happiness had cut through me,
now their mutual sorrow wounded me even deeper. I felt
cheated too. It seemed to me that Donna had fooled Dan
into marriage. But I tortured myself by remembering his
declaration of love for Donna, now his wife. Wife: to my
mind it was a horrible word, one that marked the end of
everything. A service was held and we all turned up to
grieve, though I wasn't in mourning for the mite in the
tiny, white box. I could hardly bear to see Donna play the
victim, all skeletal and sad, Dan a six-foot mirror for her to adore herself and her suffering. I could not feel for them
and their pain. It was as if a malign spirit had taken over
me and I was trapped within a wretched cocoon of regret
and bitterness, full of these awful thoughts.
I might have left town then but I met a guy called Mark,
through my job as a cashier at the big local supermarket.
He was on a placement from London, climbing the managerial
ladder. Dan had taken time off to be with Donna
and we weren't seeing one another as we had done. Our
separation was liberating with Mark around. He was fun
to be with, so we laughed and flirted and when he kissed
me I almost thought, This would do. Finally I could see
a way out of the Donna and Dan tangle. Even though I
was still in love with Dan, reality had started to impinge
and I knew I would have to extricate myself, however
painful that might be.
And then one day Dan turned up at the allotment looking
beautiful and forlorn. He was there to see me, to be with
me. All my resolve crumbled in the face of his need. I wanted
to believe that we could make this terrible situation work,
but mostly I just wanted him. We made love and it was like
our first time all over again, the sheer rightness of it knocking
us both off kilter. Afterwards he whispered into my neck,
'What have we done?' Did he mean just then or the whole
Donna and him thing? I didn't know and wasn't about to
ask. I should have run away that very moment. I did not. 'I
love you so much I could die of it,' I said instead.
He stopped wearing his wedding ring whenever he was
with me after that. I knew it was a small gesture made for
me, and I accepted it and loved him for it all the more. I
knew he wore the ring at home because the indentation
was always there, like a scar that has faded but is still
visible.

Kitty watched the dawn light on the river with her mother.
When she woke she found May already waiting with the
curtains open, as if drawn by an elemental call to bear witness
to a new day. Fanciful thoughts, Kitty knew. It was more
probable that she liked the strong, shifting colours. Her knitting
at home was equally vibrant, joyous in its dislocated way.
Kitty wondered if May might be up to completing her patchwork
bedspread when they got back, but suspected the art
of making stitches was now beyond her. Perhaps Kitty would
give it a go herself, try to finish what her mother had begun
so purposefully before her mind had started to unravel itself.
They sat side by side on the bed and watched through
the big picture window of their cabin. The river slid
by. The sky set off strips of orange light against its deep
night blue, then livid pink, to peach, and on to a pure bright
blue, without flaw or blemish. They both sighed at the same
time. If this was life at its most basic, Kitty had no argument
with it.

If Ellen said it once to May she said it a thousand, maybe
even a million, times: she couldn't wait to get out of that
place. It smelled better now, so that was one good thing.
And with their things around and about it didn't look as
awful as it had. It was still the coldest place on earth, even
when the sun was boiling down outside. Mam made friends
with a neighbour, Ursula Freeney, and she came to mind
them when they were at home while Mam was at work.
Ursula had a stammer and that was funny, especially when
she was cross about something because then she couldn't
get a full word out at all. May peed herself once, she
laughed so hard at one of the woman's tantrums, but then
Ursula gave her a smack across the face. May's teeth dug
into the inside of her cheek and she could taste blood.
That wasn't so funny. Ellen smiled at it, mind you, but
that was Ellen all over.
On the day of her next birthday Ellen blew the candles
out on her cake and moved in with Granny Larkin. May
thought her heart would break with the loneliness. She
wanted her sister back, to tease her and show no mercy, for
things to be normal again. Mam was really sad too, more so
than usual. The house had an echo now, as well as the smells
and the cold. May wished they could get a dog or a cat.
Sometimes Ellen visited but you could tell it was because
Granny Larkin made her. She always brought cake so that
was good but not enough to make everything all right. For
one thing Ursula was still around.
A strange thing happened once: Mam just hugged May,
out of nowhere. 'You're a very good girl,' she said. 'But you're
so like him.'
May hoped she meant Daddy, not one of the dead boys,
her brothers.
They gave it another month and then they moved in with
Granny Larkin too. Then there were more smiles going
around. May didn't miss Ursula one bit.

They visited a magnificent temple built by the great Queen
Hatshepsut. Their guide was a man called Anwar who swung
prayer beads and smelled of lamb, and expected them to finish
his sentences, as a teacher would. He preferred to look the
men in the eye, rather than the women, and Kitty could tell
they were uncomfortable in case they got an answer wrong
and were punished. The dog ate my homework,' she wanted
to say, to make them laugh, but she didn't want to be rude to
Anwar. He seemed reluctant to tell them too much about the
queens remarkable achievements. Perhaps he fears he'll have
a feminist revolt on his hands, Kitty mused, and the men are
outnumbered in our little party. Hatshepsut was the greatest
of the female rulers, she knew, more powerful than Cleopatra
even but now much less famous because Liz Taylor never
played her in a movie. No one had, as far as Kitty could recall.
Hatshepsut's legacy was breathtaking: from the grand
terraces of the temple, accessed by massive ramps, to its
wonderful position on the plain. Surrounded by carefully
tended trees and plants, it must have blown the peasants'
minds when it was first built. Hatshepsut spent most of her
life in men's clothing, playing the lads at their own game.
Her successor, Tutmosis III ordered the destruction of all her name cartouches, the lozenges containing the hieroglyphic
symbols of her name. He thought he had consigned
her to oblivion but he had not managed to obliterate every
trace. There were still enough to guarantee her immortality.
Kitty thought cartouches would be the perfect way to
write her name and Dan's side by side, yet still keep them
indecipherable and hidden. She might paint their symbols
on the wall of her allotment shed or carve them into one of
the mighty oaks that lined the pathway to work, like the
other lovers' initials that lay entwined there. And no one
would be any the wiser about their meaning but her.
Overhead the sky was dotted with hot-air balloons moving
slowly across the heavens, striped and coloured silk crayoned
against bluest blue. Little human figures hung over the
sides, taking in the grandeur of the delta and its sacred
places. Those on ground level couldn't help but point and
stare.
Then it was on to the Valley of the Kings where they took
a little train to the tombs from the entrance, which May
called 'Puffin Billy" and the Egyptians a 'tuf-tuf. The names
seemed complimentary to the ear. Kitty thought of Dan again,
a silly bit of information he loved to spout about the Von
Trapp family: they did not escape on foot over the Alps but
took a train to Italy. She glanced at her mother whose mind
was likely throwing up all manner of trivia like this too,
though in her case it was in the vain hope that another part
of her brain could catch the memory and retain it. May's
mind was guttering like a spent candle, desperate to endure
and be of use but almost out of time.
They walked into the mountain and saw stars again, many
and white against the darkness, painted on the low ceiling
of a burial chamber, close enough to touch. Between them,
Kitty imagined she saw the vacuum into which we must all
go. The Pharaohs believed themselves girded against that
emptiness, providing themselves in their earthly resting
chambers with everything they would need in the afterlife.
Kitty stared into the celestial scene. Its beauty was
heart-smashing. It's not a vacuum up there, she reminded
herself, it is infinity.

We process, formally in a line, into the tomb of a minor
queen whose mummy is displayed in a glass case. Like Snow
White, I think to myself. There is a faded quality to this
place that I like. The elderly man watching over it is expecting
far less than his counterparts in the famous sites nearby. I
put my hand into my baksheesh pocket and separate a few
notes and coins. We are sorted.
The most unusual feature of this resting place is the tiny
display to the right of the dead queen, again encased in glass.
It is her unborn child, a handful of small bones now, separated
from its mother. Mum stares at it and goes berserk.
She swings her head from side to side, checking where
she is and not finding anything of comfort. She begins to
holler, That's not my baby. My baby is alive. My baby isn't
dead . . . Mam's baby died. Ellen's baby died. But my baby
lived.'
Her anguished cries echo alarmingly off the walls of the
enclosed space. The guardian is frightened. We all are. He
reaches for her without ever meaning to make contact. I
can see he simply wants her to leave, to stop her racket.
She is heaving with sobs now. 'My Kitty is safe. My kitten
didn't die.'
I try to calm her. I'm here, Mum. I'm fine. Look at me,
I'm all grown up.'
She doesn't believe me, I can tell, but the alternative is
too much even for her rambling mind to want to take on.
She allows me to lead her off while she throws a last glance
back at the skeleton foetus. The guardian is pressing himself
against the walls and even the lack of baksheesh doesn't
bother him. At the mouth of the tomb, Anwar is craning his
neck to see what the noise is all about down here and wanting
it to be someone else's group to blame for it. He clocks who
is making the fuss and retreats, looking furious.
Outside, we rest on the dusty path. I keep my arms about
Mum, warding off the world and its offers of assistance. Her
body is racked with convulsive sobs which eventually subside.
Then she takes a jagged breath and asks, 'Why are we here?'
looking around as if she's just noticed her surroundings and
is quite intrigued by them. 'I'm thirsty,' she says then, and
accepts a bottle of water from Rita. 'I know this place,' she
continues. 'Egypt. I'm coming here with my daughter soon.'
Simon Hill was delighted to have stairs. He had rented a
house that was not a bungalow, as his previous two rentals
had been in the towns he'd grown bored of. Stairs, then,
with their reassuringly regular treads and risers, were a
symbol of a new beginning. Between the set at home and
those of the marbled entrance hall at work he was on the
up, and sometimes on the down, but all in a good way.
Happiness made him whistle but he soon stopped as it was a tuneless affair and the situation deserved better.
Each day he tried different routes to the library, searching
for the most interesting. The weather was grey and damp with
a nip of wind to keep even the sleepiest head alert. He liked
that. His favourite journey so far was quite circuitous: by some
allotments, skirting a cemetery that looked ripe with local
history, and over past the railway track before a sharp left turn
through the small town square. It was neither up nor down,
Pennick being a flat place. Again he was glad of his stairs.
Mona was on duty when he arrived. It didn't seem to
matter how early he got there, she was ahead of him. She
always instructed him to ignore her, saying she was just
tying up some loose ends and pottering. As she was also a
member of the library he couldn't very well bar her or ask
her to leave. He often spied her ensconced in her alcove,
happily reading, and his heart did melt a little towards her
then. After a few days she appeared with his coffee, asking
if there was anything that puzzled him, any way she could
help.
The huge crime section?' he said, without thinking,
desperate not to have a conversational hiatus.
'Thrills,' she announced. 'Nothing much happens in
Pennick these days and there's nothing like a good murder
or serial killer to spice up the boredom. Better to have it all
in a book than happening on the streets.'
It was the start of many illuminating chats. As gruff as
her manner was, Simon found himself watching the clock
and counting down the hours to another good conversation.
Mona also made a mean cup of coffee and brought a caramel
wafer bar for him, which he was certain he was becoming
addicted to. He almost never clocked the bristles now.
Her accent was fascinating. It was soft, like all of the
Norfolk voices he heard each day, but tempered by an education
received elsewhere. He knew his own was a composite
of every place he had lived. He had always adapted it enough
to fit in but never to seem like he was taking the piss out
of the natives. He didn't see himself picking up the Pennick drawl - or Panic drawl as it was pronounced locally. That
was an oxymoron if ever he'd heard one. Oxford had
smartened his diction and his parents had been proud to tell
him he sounded posh to their ears.
'I never married,' Mona told him. 'Could have, of course.
But I didn't need legal sanction. Never found the "right one"
either. Or haven't yet. And I've never lacked for sex so I
didn't see the point. You?'
'Funnily enough, just the same.'
It made him wonder if they looked alike, both dressed as
fogeys and sporting their light 'taches and academic minds.
Was this in any way attractive? Was he, in fact, the equivalent
of an old maid? It seemed so. But, resting back in his
swivel chair and laughing with his new friend, he found he didn't actually mind.
'The Historical Society's monthly meeting is upon us so
you'll be given a formal introduction at that. You can get
properly stuck into scrutinising our past from then on.'
'I look forward to it,' he said, and meant it.
'The ladies of the WI are also gagging for us to send them
a new speaker with fresh stories so I'm forewarning you now.'
'I take it I have no choice but to do a talk?'
'Correct. And it will be talks, plural. They'll love you.'
Again, that seemed a kind of warning, but a gentle one
and delivered with a twinkle. He liked this place, he decided.
They were sitting on the bed of the cabin, this time looking
at the swans the stewards had made from towels, when May
said, 'I'm so glad we're sharing again, Ellen. I was lonely
without you.'
Kitty's heart turned about itself. She wasn't sure how to
handle this but thought she should ask, 'What about Kitty?'
May shook her head, not comprehending or perhaps not
wanting to. It was hard to tell. 'She's not you, Ellen,' she
said, and smiled.
Kitty's world started closing in. Mum means no harm, she
kept reminding herself, but it was crushing all the same. At
least she had taken her for a beloved sister and not a stranger.
She turned away to hide her disappointment.
'What's wrong, Kitty?' May asked.
'Nothing,' she replied, and for a moment it was true again
and she was suddenly happy.
'Did you feed Pegasus?'
'I'll do that now,' she said, and moved off to the tiny loo
to be alone with her worries about what would become of
them.
They had one last day before leaving the boat and heading
for the Red Sea. The cruiser was unusually quiet as the
Italians and Germans had already left, en route for another
leg of their holidays. Today they took a felucca to a tropical
garden on a nearby island. The sails on this most traditional
of boats picked up the merest breath of air. The sheer
craft of the boatman was mesmerising, the skill of centuries
handed down from father to son . . . and maybe even to a
few girls along the way, Kitty hoped.
They admired the plants and May made everyone laugh
by declaring the worst enemy of the public garden was an
old lady with a large handbag. She looked at her smiling
companions as if they were crazy to find amusement in this
obvious fact.
She wanted to bring various wild cats they encountered
home with her. 'Will the bus take long?' she asked, fretting
about the time the creatures would have to be in boxes.
'A fair while,' Kitty said.
'We'd best try a train then. Dan will look after us.'
Oh, but will he? Kitty wondered. Can he?

May was moving up into Sister Vincent's class at school. It
was exciting that she was growing up but Vincent had a bad
name and was fond of the switch. Ellen told her to keep her
head down because she wouldn't want to see the nun in a
temper. When May came home and told Mam who she had
for the next year, her mother went all quiet.
'Did she teach you too?' May asked.
'Yes,' was all the reply she got.
She knew better than to push it.
Later, lying in bed, she heard her mothers voice raised
in the kitchen. 'If that bitch touches one hair on my daughter's
head, I'll do for her, so help me God I will'
My daughter. May liked the sound of that.
Sister Vincent was as mean as everyone said. She was
scary to look at, too, with a face like a skull thinly covered
in skin and only it and her hands showing from under her
habit, and sometimes her shiny, black shoes if she walked
quickly. Her hands were like a skeleton's, too, bony and
sharp. When she poked you in the chest you knew all about
it and had an angry, red mark afterwards to show for it. That
hurt, but it was a badge of honour to be shown off in the
yard at break-time.
Vinnie loved chanting prayers beseeching for mercy, even
if she showed none herself. 'Hail, Holy Queen,' she'd start,
and they'd all chime in. 'Hail, our life, our sweetness and
our hope.' May found it boring. She wanted to learn things,
lots of things. She wanted to read stories and poems.
'To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve.' Vinnie
particularly liked to pick on the orphans in the class, especially
a girl called Rose. 'To thee do ice send up our sighs.' She made Rose cut all her hair off, claiming she had nits.
They all had nits, sure the dogs on the street knew that, but
none of the rest of them had to have their heads shaved like
Rose.
'Mourning and weeping in this valley of tears.' May asked
at home if she could have hers done too so Rose wouldn't
feel so bad. 'Turn then, O precious advocate, thine eyes of
mercy on us.' Mam asked all about the orphan and told May
she must stick up for anyone being bullied or even worse
off than herself. May didn't think anyone was as poor as they
were, but when she said that Mam snapped at her that she
had a mam and a granny and Rose had no one.
'O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary.'
The next time Vincent picked on Rose, May stood up and
said, 'Don't you touch a hair on her head again, you bad
bitch, or my mam will be dug out of you, so help her God
she will.'
Vincent scored her hands with five hard swipes of the switch each, and said she'd tan her hide for her too if she
ever heard such language again. She said May would roast
in Hell, no shadow of a doubt about that, but it was no
wonder given where she was got from. Then Mam came to
visit the school and after that Vincent never said a cross word
to either May or Rose again. She still continued her devotion
to Our Lady and no day passed without loads of Hail
Marys and a round of hymns. 'Hail, Queen of Heav'n, the
ocean star,' they'd sing, 'guide of the wand'rer here below.' May liked the hymns better than the prayers. She was partial
to a good tune.
Rose got consumption and died a while later. May didn't
think Sister Vincent was to blame for that, but she wasn't sure. The class sang at her funeral and Vinnie had the cheek
to cry.

Hurghada has miles of bright beach and a sparkling sea to
invite us in but the sight fills me with dread. I cannot forget
Mums remark of a week ago. Today she is dancing with
excitement, though. There is no reason to suspect she even
remembers the promise she thinks I made her then. All she
wants is to get out into that water and enjoy it. I watch her
splash round in delight and she waves back to me with the
biggest smile I have seen on her face in ages. Back on the
sand again she plays with children who react to her with
such acceptance it makes my heart lift oddly. The parents
aren't so sure about Mum. They keep watch discreetly, ready
to spring to their kids' rescue if need be. I try to signal to
them that there's nothing to worry about but, as usual, it
makes Mum seem like an imbecile so I stop.
I can't blame the parents for their suspicion; we live in
times when you cannot risk taking your eyes off a child for
a moment. I want to tell them that I know how they feel,
that I am the same. I too watch everyone for signs of imminent
harm. I continually scout our surroundings for danger.
The whole place is crawling with hucksters and pickpockets
and people simply trying to better their lives by making some
money for their families. I have to look out for mine first,
so they'll have to back off and leave us be. La, shukran.
Mum eats an ice cream surrounded by her new friends.
It's as if she has never encountered one before. Her face
screws up when it is unexpectedly cold but she perseveres
because it tastes so delicious, smacking her lips and declaring,
'Fuck me, that's good,' which betrays her age a tad, I feel.
Liz stands and stares at the sea for long periods of time
without going in, which is a puzzle. I ask Rita about it.
'Her son is finishing a tour of duty in Afghanistan. It's
always worst for her the nearer his return gets, as if there's
more chance now that something will happen to him. I think
she wants to be as close to him as possible in case he needs
her, or as if it'll bring him luck.'
I like to think that explains a lot about Liz but I don't
know her very well so I withhold any judgement. It would
only be ill informed. Maybe I just want it to have a significance
it actually doesn't. I see people noticing Mum and
making assumptions so I try not to go there with anyone
else, though it's impossible as I am only human. I suspect
Liz is an unconscionable bossy boots whatever her situation.
I spend my time checking that Mum is wearing her hat
against the sun and her sun block, which I say is tanning
lotion so she doesn't know it's stopping her from getting
burnt. She wants to get a tan, she tells me, and the surest
way of doing that is to get burned and let it fade. Her pale
Irish skin has a nice glow now and it will build but there is
no way I am letting her follow the crazy plan she has formulated
from somewhere in the faulty recesses of that head.
Her logic is not what it used to be, though I secretly allow
myself to acknowledge that, for all its drawbacks, it was a
vaguely thought through notion.
We find a lovely seafront restaurant and settle in for the
evening. Mum is off to our room with Edna. There is a tacit agreement that the women of our party take over these
evening duties, although Liz never does, and the men are
to help during the day. I am so grateful I feel like giving
baksheesh to all of my new companions. Instead, I buy lots
of drink. I couldn't care less how much it costs, it's worth it
for the respite I am getting and the care and affection my
mother is experiencing. We move on to talk of disease and
death but I am not so paranoid as to believe that it is because
of Mum. Who doesn't want to discuss misfortune and our
short time on this earth, given a jar or three?
Sue lost her husband to cancer, watching him fade away
over months, in great pain. Gradually he lost his dignity and,
ultimately, his fight for survival, which she said was dogged.
'He really did not want to die. I didn't want him to. But die
he did.' She shrugs. 'That's life.' I can see there is a raw part
within her that will never truly heal, that can never forgive
life for dealing her such a hand.
Mum is fading, too, but not in any pain so far, and for
that I am truly grateful. I've heard of sufferers losing their
ability to swallow when their brain shuts down the gag reflex.
Eventually they die from hunger and thirst, through no fault
of their family or carers. It's a tough disease to call; even
tougher to deal with.
Mags's husband went suddenly from a massive, debilitating
stroke. 'His circuitry just blew, like his mental wiring shorted
and failed.' It's as if she's describing an execution in the
electric chair. 'He was built, though, so it took him weeks
to die because the rest of him was so physically strong.'
Mum's brain is dying, bit by bit, but I thank our lucky
genes that we are an otherwise hardy family and she has
experienced little illness before this.
I look at the faces around the table and I know these
stories make us realise just how precious our lives are and
that we probably only get one shot, one ride on the carousel.
I want my turn to count but with that aspiration comes a
dark place: the idea that I am wasting not only my time but
Dan's too. We have no future, yet to imagine any future
without him is as awful as trying to get my head around the
fact that Mums days are curtailed. It's interesting that not
one of us tonight has suggested there might be something
beyond the grave. No resurrection for us, no eternal life
hereafter.
Our days are lazy now. We have a big breakfast and get
into our beach gear. I have bought Mum a bucket and
spade and she's getting full use out of them. She has her
uncomplicated friendships at the beach. They speak
different languages but have no trouble communicating.
The parents now know we mean no harm; that my mother
has her problems but they are no threat to others. She
loves the sand and the sea, swimming happily or just
splashing at the water's edge. She talks about her little
people to me and says, 'I'm away with the fairies.' I don't
know whether this is said to make me laugh as it would
nave been when she was more compos mentis, but I don't
care either. It's good, it's all good. I realise that if she were
to die now she would go happy. I might almost be happy
myself. I brush off the thought; it's ridiculous and obscene.
We have a long way to go yet.
When the parents bring their children in for their afternoon
nap we take one too. It's a routine and Mum likes that.
So do I. I have not been this relaxed in ages. We write postcards
to the neighbours and I send a round robin one to the
station. I don't put 'wish you were here', even as a jokey
cliche, because I don't wish anyone else was here with us
and that surprises me. I do, however, buy a plastic ruler in
the hotel shop with the hieroglyphic symbols for the letters
of the Roman alphabet carved out of it so that I can spell
out two secret name cartouches. It makes me think I am,
literally, a hopeless romantic.
And then, one mid-morning, just as I am thinking we'd
do well to shelter from the worst of the sun, I cannot find
Mum. I have taken my eye off her for the briefest moment
and she has disappeared. I get up and start to pace the sand,
searching. She is not with the children but I don't want to
panic anyone by asking where she's got to. Remy, the little
French boy, notices me, and gestures to the sea. I go to the
waterline but still I cannot see her. My eyes are squeezed
tight against the glare, even behind my dark glasses. I am
glad of them as I hope they are hiding my increasing distress.
I scan the water but there are too many bobbing heads and
much confusion.
I go over to Liz, standing in her usual sentinel position
on the shore. I follow the line of her gaze and see Mum's
head above the water as she forges on. Liz says, 'She's gone
out further than usual today.' Anxiety creeps into her features.
'Should I have called her back?'
'No,' I say.
I hope she believes me. It is not this stranger's duty to
look after May Fulton, it is mine. I call to Mum then, waving
my arms. I whoop. I try to wolf-whistle, which is pathetic
as I have never been able to do this, so why should I suddenly
gain the ability now? Mum is still moving away from me. I
have no choice but to follow.
I learned to swim nearly as soon as I could walk and I
have always loved it. It's my form of exercise, along with
keeping the allotment and sex with Dan. Christ, what's made
me think of that? I keep my head above water, setting Mum
in my sights, and force my arms and legs to work faster than
they should. It is the wrong thing to do. Soon they tire and
I feel the burn of lactic acid in my muscles. I ease up.
My breath is hot and ragged in my chest and my mind
churning with the thought that this might be the end. I
cannot allow that. She may have decided on a course, but
what about me? Don't I have a say? 'I matter in all this,' I
want to scream. I think I may actually have done just that.
Today is not the day to die, for either of us. I won't allow
it. My mother is still in there and I want her with me. If
that's selfish, so be it. And who's to know which mother is
swimming out too far right now. Is it the woman who reared me, or the kid who's trying to take over?
I'm gaming on her fast now. When I am close, I yell,
'Mum, over here.' She turns and waves but continues out
to sea.
Is this deliberate? I go after her and am quickly beside
her. 'You should come back now,' I say.
She stops and treads water. "Why?' she wants to know.
'Because I want you to.'
She stares me down for a moment then turns for shore
and calmly starts into a breaststroke.
'Race you,' I say. Anything to get her out of the water and
back on the safety of dry sand.
She ignores that and takes her own sweet time about
returning. At the end she lets the gentle waves deliver
her to the shore, waiting for each thrust and eddy to inch
her closer, like it's a little game she's playing. She rides
in on the water. Allows it to see her safely back to land,
not me. She walks up the beach without looking back. I
drag myself after her, or try to. When I get out of the
water I am staggering. My legs refuse to stop shaking. I
sit, exhausted, with my head between my knees. My throat
burns from the seawater I have swallowed. For all the
boasting and certainty that I am unflappable, my heart
rate rose that time for sure. I get up and walk to where
the Merries are standing guard over our things. Mum is
drying herself off.
'You'd better put on some more lotion,' I say, as lightly
as I can manage with a pounding heart and a wavering voice.
EIGHT


We don't say goodbye to our new comrades in Egypt and so
the journey home is an odd mixture of homecoming and
parting. We know we will split up at Heathrow and this lends
a surreal air to the end of our trip. I know it's unlikely well
see these people again. It would be unnatural to so I won't
make any false promises to keep up, to stay in touch. They
have shown us kindness and for that I will remember them.
I hope for their happiness, as they have tried to ensure ours.
I know they will speak to people we will never meet of the
pair of Norfolk women they met in Egypt and describe the
mother's illness and funny episodes. I am worried about that.
I want us to be represented fairly, don't want us to be a
comic story, lightly dismissed. Even Anwar, our erstwhile
guide, will probably refer sometimes to the crazy English
woman who went mad in a tomb. But we are not material
for gossip, I want to protest, though we are that too, of
course, even in Pennick.
I have Mum beside me, seated in the middle of the row
while I take the window seat. I don't want her getting freaked
by being high in the sky, although it doesn't seem to bother
her. She eats her meal with relish, loving the way everything
is squeezed on to the tray and looking cute. She watches the
family movie then dozes, so the flight is uneventful. As we
come into land I see the brown and green fields of Blighty,
with their straight sides and haphazard shapes and sizes.
The first surprise is that Dad is waiting for us in Arrivals.
I immediately assume someone is dead but I'm wrong. He
has come to drive us home, as a treat. We will arrive in town
by car, not train. I will not see Dan. I don't know how I feel
about that.
'Look at you both, so tanned,' he says, and Mum links
arms with him, giggling. I am happy to hand her over.
I introduce him to our travel companions and I can see
the spark of interest this kindles. They know now there are
details about our lives that they have missed. We never
mentioned a husband or a father still alive. They made certain
assumptions and we neglected to correct them. They'll have
that to wonder about, our parting gift. We hug them
awkwardly and Liz tries to squeeze in a few questions about
Dad. She's out of luck. We wave to the others as we leave
and the airport door slides shut on that part of our lives.
Mum is hanging off Dad's arm still. She says, 'Alf, you
need a haircut.' Alf was my grandfather's name, my dads
father. Dad laughs it off and agrees that his hair is too long.
I leave them to take the front seats and try to grab some
sleep in the back of the battered Peugeot. Instead, I am
struck by how chilly the air is here and ask Dad to turn the
heating up full blast. The countryside looks dull and parochial,
not what I've become accustomed to. It seems to sneak by.
Rain begins to spit and I imagine Jed's rheumatics will be playing up big time. I wonder if Egyptians ever get that sort of ache in their bones or whether it's impossible when every day is sunny and blue-skied. They don't have our damp. I'd almost forgotten it myself. My eyes become accustomed to the new palette and soon I can see that there are many fierce greens and browns out there, a variety of greys, and ... I doze off, because next thing Dad is announcing we're home.
Here's our familiar redbrick street, though there are small changes to it. Fred Curtis has painted his front door yellow.
It glows in the dark and I wonder if he'll still love its luminosity come summer. However, it scores higher than the gloss brown with cream trim he's had till now. Craig Melba's bike is lashed to the lamp-post, looking dejected, its front tyre
punctured. Poor Craig seems to invite mishap. We pile out
of the car on unsteady legs and see our breath cloud in the
air. A light is on in our front room, welcoming against the
early darkness. I wonder if Dan is in there too. He is not.
He has made a lovely job of neatening the place, though,
and the chemical smell has dissipated. He has left just the
very essential Post-its on the walls and a new one on the
cover of the household diary to say he hopes we had a good
time, listing groceries laid in for us, and sighed simply with
the letter D. No V after it. No flowers, either, but it's the
wrong time of year for those at the allotment and we are
not wealthy people who can be indulging in such frivolities
in the supermarket. Ah, well. I put the kettle on for tea,
something I have not done in a fortnight.
Mum stares at the place, mesmerised. 'It's nicer than
Granny Larkins,' she says.
Dad looks quizzical but I shake my head. I will tell him
anything he needs to know later. 'Will you stay?' I ask.
'Yes. We can have a chat.'
We treat ourselves to a Chinese takeaway and then I see
Mum upstairs. She bounces on her bed. 'I get my own room,'
she says, thrilled. She gets off and goes to the wardrobe to
root around. She is looking for something specific but doesn't
tell me what. She is disappointed and empty handed after
her search.
Dad has opened a bottle of wine. 'She's worse, isn't she?'
he says when I rejoin him.
There is no point in stalling this. 'Yes,' I admit, and feel
like a traitor. I try some mitigation and, as its the truth, it
softens my guilt. 'We had a wonderful holiday, Dad, really
special. Mind you, it's just as well I didn't leave it any longer
to go or it might have been wasted on her. As it was, she
remembered lots about Ancient Egypt, which was a bit
astonishing but one in the eye for Alzheimer's, and she adored the beach.'
I take a long slug of a rich, peppery Shiraz that he gets
for special occasions. I suppose this is one. It's a big moment.
We are home after our awfully big adventure. Now we must
face our grim future. After all, it's not as if it's not going to
happen.
My father has the easiest manner about him of anyone I know. He makes it possible to talk of difficult things and always makes them seem approachable. I wish I'd had this same ease with him all along but growing up brings with it the grandiose and idiotic idea that it's you against the world and we all waste a lot of time shedding that baggage. He waits for me to go on. There is no rush.
Mum's away in her own world nearly all the time now.
She's happy there, in that place. Its only when she comes back, has some lucidity, that she's unhappy. She's frightened then.'
'I hate to think of that.' His voice is strained.
'You and me both. And I hate having to second-guess how she feels. I can't be sure I'm making the right decisions
because I can't nail this bugger down. I don't have all the
information. I don't have access to the thoughts in her head.'
Our eyes meet and I know he will say, 'Neither does she.'
When he does, we both smile tightly.
Tell me now, did you have a good holiday?' It's so like
him to make sure I talk about me too.
Oh, Dad, I loved it. I loved the country, the history, the
architecture, the art - the lot.' And then I am off and
blathering, I'm sure, all the time encouraged by his gentle
smile.
Later, he has to bring us back to the present. 'We will
have to think about managing this new phase,' he says.
The statement sits at the table with us, making room for
itself, elbowing its way to the centre of my attention.
'I don't think it's time for a nursing home, yet, if that's
what you mean. We can organise more help here. This is a
lot better than sheltered accommodation, for instance.
Everyone around here knows her and cares about her. This
is the best place for Mum right now.'
I know I am just buying time. I am not ready to let her
go. I may never be.
'It's up to you,' he says. 'But when the tough decision has
to be made . . .'
I know. But that time is not here yet, Dad. It's a fair while
off yet.'
I hope I am not fooling myself too much.

Sleeping in her own bed made Kitty long for Dan more than
when she had been away. It was to do with proximity, she
supposed, the fact that he was close by and attainable. She
had a troubled night but rose early to get her mother up for
the day and take a tour by her allotment before work. Her
father would stay with May until the next home shift took
over and return that evening to help draw up a roster to deal
with this next phase. He threatened to wear his djellabah for
the entire day. May couldn't stop laughing at the idea of this
man in a dress and nearly choked on her toast. Kitty told him
he'd freeze.
She rushed along the streets, yellow street lights illuminating
the familiar journey. As street gave way to mud path
she heard the crackle of frost underfoot. She waved to Glenda
Parfitt, on horseback, as she returned from her early-morning
exercise. Andrew Faber and his wife's nurse walked by with
their dogs. Everything was in its usual place. And so she was
surprised to see Dans shed in darkness as she neared the
allotments. The sky brightened and still there was no sign
of him. She had been so sure he would be here. She checked
over her vegetable drills and plant beds. She loitered, chilled
to the marrow, nose dripping. She should have dug a hole,
anything to burn off the rising sense of shame she felt. In
her absence the trees had lost the last of their leaves and
were naked and pale. Finally, she set off for the station,
astounded at the depths of her self-delusion. She had no
right to expect anything of that man.
There was a chill hanging about the office even though
the radiators were on full blast. Her autumn roses were now
a faded brown, crisp in their vase. As she binned them a
thorn bit into the soft pad of her thumb, brittle and angry
after a fortnights drought. She sucked on it and tried not
to cry. Her world felt small and cold. She thought of the
majesty of Egypt, the great sweeping vista of life and history
there that had spoiled her for a three-up-two-down home,
the frosty walk to work and an office whose magnolia walls
wept with heat but would not share it. Dust lingered on
every other surface as far as she could see. This was her
desert sand, waiting its chance to claim the office. She felt
grubby.
She made some coffee and settled in to see what Margo
had been up to while she was in charge. The girl's handwriting
was appalling, Kitty discovered, especially, and perhaps
deliberately, in the Lost and Found book. The shelves were
a jumble of items old and new and Kitty postponed their reordering
in the face of the ordinary office work that needed
to be got back on track. She must have been immersed half
an hour before Dan arrived, trailing Benny from the night
shift.
'Welcome back,' he called. 'You look great.'
He did not. He looked wretched. Kitty wondered if it was
because he'd missed her but something in his demeanour
forbade her to decide that this was the case. He gave her a
light kiss on the cheek and she breathed in his familiar scent.
It made her tingle. She had thought he might brush her arm
or touch her hand but he did not. In fact, he took himself
out of her immediate orbit.
Benny complimented her on her tan and asked how May
had enjoyed the trip. She answered and described it all and
so the required pleasantries were exchanged between
colleagues. Go home, Benny, she wanted to say, but he was
clearly glad she was back and wanted to know all about her
adventures. Dan managed to avoid her eyes, no matter how
wily her glances. What was wrong?
She sold tickets to a couple of old dears on their way to
Crockton. A lot of the older clientele avoided the machine
preferring the human contact and a chat. Kitty knew that
she might be about the only one an elderly person spoke to
throughout a whole day. She tried to give of her time generously
without becoming a branch of Social Services. Normally.
Today she knew these customers were just the excuse Dan
was looking for to escape. While the ladies were explaining
that they were off to visit a friend who had broken her hip,
he took his opportunity to sneak out.

Trains do not pause for breaks, like elevenses, so neither do
we. Coffee is had on the run. Dan ducks in to get a proper
cup as the stuff from the vending machine on the concourse
is truly vile and very sweet. The Romanians who have settled
here in the last few years love it, as do Mr and Mrs
Shevchenko whose ancestors were Russian though they are
as English as I am. More so, probably. The Shevchenko
family have been here since just after the First World War,
the ancestral sweet tooth abiding throughout the generations
however.
I glance at the messy shelves of lost items. 'Has that box
of ashes been collected?'
'No. Margo moved it out of sight. Said it freaked her. Its
a Mr Hill, by the way. That's who's in there.'
'How do you know?'
'His son is the new librarian. I said he should wait till you
got back so that the handover would be done properly. I
didn't want Margo telling him how gross it was to share an
office with his dad's remains.'
Dan's shuffling around on the balls of his feet as if there's
more he'd like to say but can't. If I didn't know him better
it would be almost comical. There's something on his mind
and I don't think I'm going to like it. He meets my eye but
bottles it.
'Right, I'd best get on with things,' he says.
I sigh. I can wait.
'I'm glad you're back, Kitty.'
The too,' I say as he leaves, cold blasting in through the
door. 'I think,' I add, for the benefit of the empty room.

A misty rain wreathed Dan Gibbs's face like a veil, trying to
suffocate him as he stood on platform two. He wished it
would. He felt ineffective and a shit. He was weak. He hadn't
been able to tell Kitty the news. He had stored it up for two
weeks, yet still he could not put it into a simple sentence
and say it to her. He would have to summon his courage
and set things to rights, if that could ever be done at all.
And he had to do it soon. If she heard from anyone else it
would be unforgivable. Today, then. He would have to tell
her today. He groaned aloud which earned him the scrutiny
of the resident train spotters. Hal, Fergie and Little Maurice
were making notes and taking photographs on the east side
of platform four. They stood by their top-heavy satchels like
. ladettes dancing around their handbags and jackets in a disco.
He stared them down. They scribbled some more; about him, for all he knew or cared. Hal even spoke into his Dictaphone. Dan resisted the urge to yell across that he
didn't believe that thing even worked. He wanted to kick
something hard but they would have seen that too. He skulked off to a sidings where he could fling his arms around and make as much noise as he liked without being seen or heard, an outcast in his own station.
When he had spent his pent-up energy he sat in the rain,
breathing heavily and wondering where to find some courage.
He noticed Roly spying on him from the door of a nearby
shed. Even the bloody cats were judgementalists these days.
Or could be the cat thought he was mad not to take shelter
from the weather.

I am rummaging for a rubber band in the bottom drawer
when I come across the little package I dug up at the allotment
before I left on my holiday. It's some sort of object
wrapped in a now filthy linen pouch. Someone took the
trouble to protect it so I am gentle as I unwrap it. I see it's
ivory coloured through the mud and root about for a cloth
to cleanse it of its earthy shroud. It's a complicated piece,
from the details that emerge, but sturdy, and eventually I
realise I can dip it in warm water without doing it damage.
It's a small sailing boat, a toy probably. It is quite the most
elaborate thing I have unearthed on my patch. I place it on
the desk like a curious paperweight but have no idea what
I will do with it. Perhaps just to admire it is the best thing.
Edie Forbes arrives, sure that her glasses case is here
because last Tuesday, when she was on her way to Trufford,
she took her specs out of it to read the sign and left them
on but didn't put the case back into her handbag. I consult
the book and try to decipher Margo's hieroglyphics. There
is a chance the missing item has been cast into the maw of
the shelves and now is as good a time as any to wrestle with
them and try to restore order. Edie wants to know did I
bring her back a sheik from my travels?
I find Mr Hill and put him back in pride of place. Edie
is saying it's a bit suspicious that when people dream of their
past lives they are always Egyptian royalty and never one of
the poor slaves.
'A cat would have had a good life in the time of the
Pharaohs,' I say. 'They revered them. We saw some in the
museum in Cairo that were mummified.'
'They've got one of those in a bar in Bury St Edmunds,'
Edie says. 'Supposed to be the smallest pub in Britain.'

Lunchtime brought the arrival of the tall stranger. He seemed
to know where he was going although Kitty had never seen
him before at the station. A rush for the 13.12 to Fetchley
meant he had to bide his time before approaching her. One
or two of the commuters nodded at him, recognising him
from somewhere. When the small throng had cleared he
approached, looking ill at ease. He was. No one had told
him quite how beautiful Miss Kitty Fulton was. He was unprepared
for it. It was her oval green eyes that stopped him
in his tracks and now he was having to look into them while
trying to make sense of his words. She smiled to hear what
he wanted and he promptly lost his powers of speech. She
ushered him into the office and he caught a faint trace of
citrus fragrance as he passed her, tangy and alive. The air
hummed about her. She handed him the box containing his
father's earthly remains and he found himself checking out
her hands. No wedding or engagement rings. Good.
'I feel like such a dolt. . .'
'Don't. You would be amazed the things people forget impossible
things, you'd have thought. He is the most exotic
thing we've had so far, mind you.'
'Thank you for taking such good care of him.'
'It was our pleasure.'
There was not a lot more to say but Simon did not want
to leave so he asked, 'How was Egypt?'
'Glorious and ancient. Sunny. I loved it.'
'I've never been.' He could have kicked himself for putting
a full stop to what might have been a conversational topic.
He was beginning to sweat lightly and was terrified it would
translate to a pong of BO.
"You're the new librarian, I hear. What a great job. I love
books and reading.' Kitty put a hand up to her face and
laughed. 'Is that a really, terribly banal thing to say?'
'Not at all, it's music to my ears.' Like your voice, he
thought. Then winced inwardly. What the hell was he doing,
thinking and speaking in such twittering meaningless platitudes?
He was coming across like a idiot. He was saved when
he noticed an object on her desk. Something about it rang
a bell in his memory, stirred a notion and put him on alert.
He pointed and asked, 'What is that, if you don't mind my
asking?'
'It's some sort of toy I dug up at my allotment.' She held
it up and handed it to him. He put the box of ashes down
on her desk and turned the ship round and round in his
fingers.
'Are those the plots on the way here, over by the graveyard?'
'Yes.
I'm forever finding bits and pieces but this seems
special. It was wrapped in linen, deliberately I'd have said.
It meant something to someone.'
'It reminds me of an item I saw in a book at the library
recently. Let me hunt that out and then, if it's all right with
you, I might take a further look at it?'
'Of course. It's probably just a kid's toy, though.'
'Yes,' he said, but didn't sound convinced. 'I'll let you get
back to work. Lovely to meet you.' He stopped short and
they both realised at the same time that they had not been
introduced. Laughing, they shook hands and exchanged
names. He looked into those eyes again and had to drag
himself away to the door.
'Don't forget your dad,' she said, pointing at the lacquered
box.
He had almost forsaken the old guy a second time.

I like him from the off. He's lanky and gauche in an academic
way, the sort of awkward stance that makes his hair fall on
to his face distractedly. His smile is shy but crinkles his eyes
and makes him look kind. He has beautiful hands, long
fingered and elegant. He's handsome. I don't notice men
much, probably because I'm not interested in doing that. If
I were I'd have joined a wine club or gone dancing or whatever.
I have no need to, though. I have Dan, or a part-share
in him. It's all I've ever known. I think it's enough.
I spend the afternoon correcting Margo's errors and
omissions, selling tickets, reporting on my holiday to interested
travellers, and checking on Mum by phone on the hour as
usual. I wonder where Dan's got to as we get to clocking-off
time. I am now certain he's been avoiding me all day. He
appears, as if on cue, looking haggard. Somehow, I know he
won't invite me for a half of lager across the road at the imaginatively
titled Railway Inn. Or any further than that.
'Kitty,' he begins, and then flounders. He has an underlying
steel about him this time, however, as if he has psyched
himself right up and will just say the words out loud so that
he must then deal with the consequences, like it or not.
I know what's coining. I have always known. I have been
waiting for this since I was sixteen years old. Something
clicks inside me on to a setting that has been primed forever.
This is the end. We've had close shaves before but now he's
finally going to call it off. Time of death, as they say on the
TV medical soaps.
'We need to talk,' he says. Things are never good when
'we need to talk'. Things never end well when 'we need to
talk'. He can't seem to get past this and on to the very bad
news, though.
'Oh, spit it out, Dan,' I say, exasperated. If he's trying to
be dramatic, I'll be insulted. If he's having difficulty putting
words to something awful, I'll thank him to get it over with
quickly.
'Donna is pregnant.'
That's not the phrase I was anticipating but there you
have it nonetheless. Time slows and in the eerie silence I
pick up on the nuances outside the vacuum bubble of the
office. The station carries on as if nothing is happening to
us in here. Some boys laugh in oddly high-pitched hysteria,
then suddenly stop. I hear change rattle down the chute of
the ticket machine. A child shouts at a parent, 'I want it. I
WANT IT!' A truck growls past and the window on to the
road shudders.
Donna is pregnant.
This news is bound up in such treachery. Not just our
combined histories. Not just the betrayal we have perpetrated
as a pair, but a betrayal beyond even that. There is an
unspoken fact and one to which we will still not give voice
because its result is now known: even as we have been lovers
all these years, so have they. Donna and Dan. I would have
been a madwoman, and fatally naive, to suppose they were
not, but as long as we never spoke of it there was
refuge available for my foolish conscience. And a hiding
place for him.
Donna is pregnant.
Time and motion hang suspended as I stare at him. I
wonder what expression my face has settled into. I cannot
register much about myself at that moment. What I do feel
is such agony that I cannot isolate it. And time, I know, far
from standing still is racking up the minutes, which will lead
to hours and days, in spite of my resistance, since he has
told me this. And so I'm not sure if one minute or thirty
have passed when I say, 'Congratulations.'
Dan looks stung, as if I have slapped his face. If I was
sarcastic I didn't mean to be. I am unable to put expression
into anything I say. My voice sounds slight and far
away but I speak the words that will save us all, reluctant
as I am to do so.
'Let that be an end to it, so. We are finished.'
It is said and there will be no going back this time. I don't
know what to do next, nor does he. This is not the way either of us might have imagined the end. And I have fantasised
about it forever, hoping to look beautiful and tragic when the
time came, imagining small speeches of great value that we
would bestow on one another for the journey ahead without
the beloved other, leaving the best possible last impression to
be savoured later and at length, the proof that we were, and
are, noble and stoic and other good things for humans to be
in their moral universe. It's not like that, here, in the stuffy
office of Pennick Railway Station, where a rattling tap on the
window tells me someone can't figure out the ticket machine
and they have somewhere to go, a place to be, where (quite
possibly) someone they love will want to love them back.
My heart has slipped its anchor and I want to lie down
and sleep but never wake up. I am suddenly exhausted,
drained of all energy and will. Everything is so hopeless that
I cannot see the point of fighting it any more. I have lost
Dan and I am losing my mother, which leaves me with
nothing. I can't think of anything more that could top this.
Disappointingly, I don't fall apart there and then. I can't
even squeeze out tears. It's as if I don't have the resources
to do that, the normal response to tragedy. The body has
some strange mechanisms for coping. I go through the
motions of selling the ticket and explaining the change the
man will have to make two stops down the line. Yes, the rain
is awful but at least it's not as cold as it was earlier. With
any luck winter will be mild this year. Thanks, I got the tan
on my holidays. Oh, yes, I would recommend Egypt. Ten
more minutes have passed and no one has died, mores the
pity. I turn to face Dan again but he has gone.
I don't remember the journey home. I am on the street
when Hannah, our neighbour and sometime Mum-minder,
pulls me into her house. She is laughing. 'This is the best
yet,' she tells me, and I prepare my face to smile and appreciate
the story. Turns out she's right, it is a good one. Earlier
Mum let herself into this house, a mirror image of our own.
She made a cup of tea and had a Kit-Kat then rearranged
the kitchen to look just like ours. 'I have no idea why that
girl changed it around,' she told a startled Hannah when she
got home. Then she got into bed and had a snooze. 'Let
yourself out,' she said to Hannah as she disappeared up the
other woman's stairs.
Dad is still laughing about it when I go through our door.
Mum is oblivious, watching a makeover show on TV. She's
clucking about the amount of white in the house and saying
'Use some colour' to the television set.
'This man is from the council,' she tells me, indicating
Dad. 'He wants to talk to you about the rent.'
'You look weard',' he says. 'Are you feeling all right?'
'Yes, it's just first-day-back-at-work-after-a-holiday syndrome,'
I tell him. I notice he doesn't look so hot himself but we are
all under strains of our own every day and he'll tell me if its
something I need to know about.
We eat a nice dinner he's made and Mum settles back in front of the television while we discuss her future. We
make some decisions about seeking a professional carer
and looking for grants for whatever we might need, and
it passes the time at least although it's hardly a laugh a
minute.
'Are you sure nothings wrong?' Dad asks.
'No. Just something at work that's been coming a while,
but it'll sort itself out.'
I am amazed how plausible this sounds and how reassuring
my voice is. I wish I could be as confident of this sunny
outcome. My world is torn asunder. It's never going to be
right again.
We take an early night and as I lie in bed I begin to
picture Dan and me in better days. I realise there have never
been ideal times. How could there have been? I long for his
touch on my skin and his breath on my body. It occurs to
me that I may never feel those again and I am suddenly
gutted that I didn't know our last time of making love had
been just that. I might have tried to make it even more
special had I known. Or perhaps that would have been the
wrong thing to do. It doesn't matter now as the moment has
passed me by and cannot be regained. I thrust my face into
the pillow and wail my anguish. No one hears. No one cares.
No one knows.
That night I have a childhood dream that has not surfaced
in years. It's the one where I am sitting on my bed and a
hand reaches out from beneath and grabs my ankle. It is the
stuff of a horror movie, a universal fear made spectral flesh.
I wake in the morning wrecked and wasted. My pillow is
wet so I have probably cried all night in my shaken sleep.
Actually it feels as if my soul is sore, not just my stiff, strained
body. My eyes are set in dark hollows, like a junkie's. And I
will have to go through my own emotional DTs. I look under
the bed, half hoping to see the bogeyman, but there are only
tumbleweeds of dust and threads and a jungle of shoes that
needs sorting.
'You look terrible,' Mum tells me when I appear.
'I think I'm coming down with something.'
I already have and it's a bad case of Daniel Gibbs. I've
been able to manage it until now but I know I am headed
into withdrawal and I'm terrified and worn out.
I want to be angry; that would be useful.
Mum says, 'We should go to Egypt like we've always said
we would.'
Right.

Simon Hill would have liked to have been on Kitty's doorstep
first thing but he knew that would look foolish and probably
also unattractive. Instant neediness was a turn-off. To be
over-eager was also not ideal. Actually it might appear creepy.
Besides he was trawling records to check on his theory about
the boat. He had made one small effort to see Kitty, which
was to take the route to work by the allotments. He was unsurprised
to find them deserted as the rain was lashing the
area like a punishment for some slight. He was sodden by
the time he reached work, but invigorated. Lawyers in gowns and wigs stood about as if this fancy dress was all the rage.
Drunks nursed hangovers and frowns. Policemen were
smiling.
When Simon had applied for the post at Pennick Library
he did some research into the town. It was commonly known
as a sleepy hollow but, if that was true now, it wasn't always
so. He couldn't yet give a proper opinion of his own as his
only previous connection with the place had been a passing
acquaintance with its railway station. Just one sentence in
a precis of the town's history had piqued his interest then
and it was reawakened when he'd seen the tiny ship on Kitty's
desk. Pennick had once served as a Parole Town. He used
the opportunity now to dig through the library's musty books
and chronicles and when he found the years he needed he
actually said 'Aha!' aloud. It was a mild eureka moment and
he felt justified in his exclamation.
Now he needed to see the object again and examine it
properly. He called Pennick railway station. Kitty sounded
tired and distracted but agreed to see him that lunchtime.
She warned him that there was no such thing as a formal
break at the station which disappointed him as he very much
wanted to be her focus. He promised not to get in her way
She had been underwhelmed to hear from him and that
bothered him a lot. He wanted to appear new and exciting
to her. He wanted to make her laugh. He suddenly thought
that she might have a lover; in fact the town was full of
lunatics if this beautiful woman did not have admirers queuing
out the door. If she had a significant other, a description he
loathed, his attentions would be unwelcome. There wasn't
much he could do about any of this from afar. He needed
to get close to Kitty Fulton. To this end he had the boat.
Was that enough?
He powered up his computer, typed in the word
'Alzheimer' and read for an hour.

The postman brings a padded envelope with a typed label
amongst the rest of his delivery for the station. It is
addressed to me. There is no accompanying note but the
contents are so profoundly shocking to me that I whimper
aloud. I am staring down at the broken pieces of a girl's
. brush and comb set. Donna has known all along. And not
just about the ruined birthday gift. This is her warning. She
is setting down her marker and challenging me, but to what
I cannot quite say. I don't know what Donna expects of
me, exactly, though I know she wants me to back right off,
I get that part of the message. This manifestation of her
knowledge of our situation shakes me. I sit and stare at the
plastic pieces. I have not touched them since the day I
broke them apart. I cannot touch them now. Their silent,
jagged accusation is cutting me. I am mesmerised and a
little frightened too. It is another layer of misery to file
away, another level of hurt, and not just for me.
What a fitting start to a morning of agony. Dan is avoiding me, which is to be expected, but it is Donna's presence that
bothers me more because she might as well be physically in
the office with me. Every time I look at the broken vanity
set, I wince. I could hide it away, should do, but I will know
exactly where it is. After a mental tussle, I settle for placing
it on a Lost and Found shelf and log it into the book. It
seems a fitting gesture. A lost friendship and a broken thing,
found again. All unwanted, like me.
The wind and rain are howling outside, raging against us
all. The commuters are damp and cranky and several
umbrellas are reclaimed. I find the noise comforting. The
natural world seems to have taken on my pain and is running
with it. It's an acknowledgement of sorts or, at least, it suits
my mood. I have to keep the lights on all day against the
darkness. A spotty lad comes to take the turquoise windcheater
away. I don't think it will give him much protection
against the angry weather but at least the garment has gone
home.
Simon Hill will be a distraction at lunch hour. Although it
will kill me to have to talk sensibly to someone, particularly
a stranger, his presence will fill a void. A baby's soother is
handed in, well worn and clearly a favourite; there'll be hell
to pay on that journey.
Roly takes refuge on a shelf. He's a macho cat but this
weather is too much even for him and not worth trying to
show off in. He lets me stroke his head as I pass. I know
better than to spend too long giving him affection as there
is only so much he will allow from anyone. I will try to profit
from his example. I have been a doormat for too long. If this
is the beginning of anger, I want to nurture it. I need a righteous
flame to sustain me. I feel hollow and alone. I wonder
if I have been a coward all my life, a passive onlooker who
has chosen to take the simplest course and roll with the
punches. I am probably getting all I deserve.
I carry out the mundanities of my work. In the lulls
between trains I am jolted by sudden onsets of fear. The
future is rattling down the line, whether I like it or not, and
the terror-jolts are reminders of it. Like the hand of the
hidden creature beneath the bed. I will deal with what I
can and time will look after the rest as it ticks on, relentless,
winding down till we all land in the dirt like Newton's
apple hitting the ground, though we will go further in.
I am soon ashamed of such florid imaginings and relieved
to see the gangling shape of Simon Hill approach.

Kitty looked tired and wan, he thought, but she explained
she was adjusting to the awful climate again and that covered
it. It was a filthy day. He had brought a small bag of tricks with him, including a magnifying glass, and quickly got to work. He looked the boat up and down then brushed it to try to loosen the last of the dirt away.
'I think it's made of bone,' he said. 'Perhaps chicken bone. I've been looking at pictures of other items like it this
morning. I wonder if we mightn't find some initials.'
Kitty filled a bowl with lukewarm, soapy water and Simon Carefully washed the boat. He prodded it with cotton buds,
then dried it very gently- Although it had spent many years
in the ground Kitty was suddenly worried that it might break
in her care and she would have thwarted history somehow.
'Did you know that Pennick was a Parole Town?' Simon
was asking her. She shook her head and murmured she did
not. He was delighted with her answer. He had information
to share.
'At the beginning of the nineteenth century several English
towns were selected to act as open prisons for French soldiers
captured during the Napoleonic Wars. Pennick was one for
a short while but it was too close to the sea and there were
a lot of escapes so it was decommissioned after only eighteen
months. The basic idea was that the officer class who'd been
captured could be trusted to live openly with the populace, observing a curfew and never straying further than a mile
from the town centre. That's where the term "milestone"
comes from because they marked the boundaries. If I'm not
mistaken I passed one near your allotments. Many of the
soldiers made items like this to sell for extra cash or to give
to sweethearts, but few have survived.'
Now he had the magnifying glass held above the base of
the ship. I'd say those are the letters FVAC
He handed Kitty the glass and sure enough she saw the
initials.
'Now we can set about finding the name or names they
correspond to.'
An extra flicker of interest stirred inside Kitty. She felt it
sometimes when she took in the most unusual lost items and
resolved to get them back where they belonged. She raised
the little object and kissed it gently before placing it on her
desk again.
'As a matter of interest,' Simon continued, 'are there any
oak trees near your vegetable plot?'
'Yes,' she said.
'Honour oaks,' he told her. 'They were another marker
the prisoners must observe and not pass by.'
'I had absolutely no idea about any of this.'
'It's unusual for a town and it wasn't for very long so I'm
not surprised.'
'What should we do next?'
Simon could not help but smile. Kitty had joined the
quest.
The rat-tat-tat of coin on glass jolted them both. Martha
D'Arcy needed a ticket to Selscott and it wasn't listed as an
option on the concourse machine.
NINE


When I look back, I wonder if I should have spotted the
signs. Dad looked tired, but when you are used to seeing
that you don't pick up on it or find it remarkable. I assumed
he was working too hard, or sleeping badly, all things I understood
very well. The call to say he has been rushed to hospital
is unexpected and by the time I get there he is gone. The
nurse calls it 'passed away'. I miss his death by moments.
He is still warm to my touch as I cry over his body. I am
rent ragged to see this man I adore so still and unresponsive.
He is no longer himself. His big, generous heart has
let him down. My own is full of shards that tear me every
time I take a breath. This human shell on the hospital bed
has his appearance and wears his familiar expression but it
is not truly my dad. His life-song is missing.

The room is unnaturally bright courtesy of fluorescent
strip lighting. It always seems to sap any other energy around
it, suck it up and give nothing back. It hurts my eyes and
makes Dad look even paler than he might. The staff have
left me alone with him and the room is eerily quiet, but for
my jagged breathing and snuffled tears. I want to talk to him
but I am all out of words. I would give a leg to have a beeping
cardiac machine tap out its hopeful rhythm. It stands silent
by the bed. Outside, life clatters on. I hear voices, laughter,
and the squeak of a trolley pushed by.
I am suddenly beset with worry that my father was afraid
as he realised what was happening. He was alone, on the
street, at the mercy of strangers. They did their best for him,
as we must all hope we will if called upon. Guiltily, I think
of figures slumped in doorways that I never approached,
assuming they were drunk or homeless and none of my affair.
I brush his tousled hair with my hand and say, 'Oh, Dad.
Oh, Dad,' because no words can cope with the magnitude
of this moment or offer any consolation.
I can never speak to him again or seek his advice. I can
tell him news but he will not respond. There can be no
discussion any more, just my one-sided conversation with
the most important bit, his opinion, missing. I know he didn't
mean to abandon me but that's what he has been forced to
do. I worry about where he has got to. Will someone look
out for him? Are his affairs in order that he may have calm
passage on this next leg of his journey?
There is a further, extraordinary problem too: I have to
make this real for Mum. How can I explain the event to her,
meaningfully, now that her lexicon is diminished? The nurse
has returned, wants to know what I'd like to do now. She
means what undertaker will come for my fathers body. His
remains. I don't want to part with him or have any truck with
seeing him go. When he leaves the hospital he is officially
beyond help, there is no hope of getting him back to rights.
I want to accuse a doctor of not trying hard enough to save
him. I want blame and I want it now; that would be of some
use, not the offer of a cup of tea and a chat with a counsellor
I have never met before. I don't want standard help. This is
a specific case. My father has died, not someone else's. It
makes this case unique.
I do not know where to start with the arrangements.
The nurse hands me a black, plastic sack with the clothes
inside that were torn from his body while the medics tried
to save him. I sign for his wallet and the watch I gave him
five years ago for his birthday. I slip it on to my wrist,
wanting him close, hoping it will help me to do the right
thing. This is foreign territory.
I leave the room and find Miss Marshall crying outside
on an orange seat in the corridor. She is my fathers right
hand woman in the publishing firm. She probably knows
him better than I do. Or she did. It is so strange to need
a past tense now. With Mum everything is in the present.
There is only now and then it is forgotten and we move
on to more now and repeat the process. But always in the
now. Any of her deep history is unavailable to me, buried
in her and unlikely to be shared. She remembers things
from long ago because they've had fifty or sixty years to
embed, recalled afresh each year and therefore strongly
entrenched in her consciousness. Things that happened an
hour ago haven't a hope.
I have always thought Miss Marshall a little stern and
wooden but now she flings herself at me. We hug. She is
trembling, overcome.
'I should have been with him,' she sobs.
'Maybe he wanted to go alone,' I say, trying to comfort
her, to give her that straw to clutch at.
'He was tired and we'd run out of coffee so he went to
get some. If only I had bought a jar this morning. I should
have known to ..."
'It's not your fault,' I tell her. 'It's no one's fault.' I don't
know if I believe this. I still want someone or something
tangible to blame. I need something to hold, to examine and
fling against a wall. And I don't want a medical explanation;
I want a moral one. The world is no better a place because
my father has been taken from it. It is a pointless act of
karmic cruelty and we are left to deal with the fallout.

Kitty's mobile had taken a message. It was from Dan,
wondering how her father was. She listened to it once, and
only just resisted the urge to smash the phone to pieces
against the door of the undertaker's. Later, after she had
chosen her father's coffin and the wording of a funeral
notice for the local paper, she texted Dan the information
he sought. She could not, and would not, talk to him. Those
days were gone. She stood outside Jensen's and thought of
the box of ashes left at the station. It had led her here
today, looking for help. She knew the firm to be discreet
and professional.
Dan Gibbs read the plain message and knew it meant so
much more than the sum of its words. His misery expanded.
He loved this woman but that was of no use to anyone any
more. He could not join her on this journey or be of any
help from the fringes. He had his own mess of duties and
conflicts. The one useful thing he did was to call his niece
Margo and ask her back to work at the station in the interim.
In Norwich, rain began to sheet across the town. Kitty
was glad of it. It set a tone and she wanted fitting tribute to
the events taking place here. Miss Marshall insisted she be
called Marie now though Kitty could not imagine ever doing
that. She offered to drive her home and Kitty all but said,
'Dad can take me.' Her hand shot to her mouth, as if to
push the words back in. Her face suddenly ached with the
tears forming behind her sinuses. She thought it might burst
under the pressure. She let Miss Marshall see her to the
station where she boarded a train to Pennick, unable to
believe that the other passengers were oblivious to her
distress.
A man sitting opposite finished a damp-looking sandwich
and began to clear his teeth in short bursts of breath. 'Tseh,
tseh, tseh.' He kept at it, sucking air back through his mouth.
Tseh, tseh, tseh.' He ran his tongue along the front of the
teeth, over and back, over and back. Then the sucking sound
again. 'Tseh, tseh, tseh.' Eventually she could take no more
and snarled, 'Will you stop that awful noise.' No 'please' in
the request, no 'thank you' when he did as he was bidden.
She could have torn his head off with her bare hands by
then and not regretted it. He got the message, as did the
other passengers. They felt her mood then.
Kitty was the only one to alight at Pennick, the
commuters having returned from their daily grind, the
pensioners from their jaunts and teenagers from their
adventures or school. She went to the office and tidied her
desk. At the door, hand on light switch, she remembered
what she had come in for. She returned to the desk, wrapped
the Frenchman's boat carefully in a clean dishcloth, placed
it in her handbag and left.
Dan Gibbs watched her come and go from the rear of
platform four and cursed himself for being an idiot all his
life.

Mum goes a little nuts when I say, 'I have bad news. Dad
is dead.' It is to be expected. She cries and pulls at her hair.
She paces the room. I cannot make out what she's saying
and, in any case, it may make no sense. After hunching
herself into a ball in an armchair, she tilts her head back and
rages at me.
'How can Dad be dead?' she wants to know.
'It was a heart attack,' I explain.
She screams, 'I don't want him to be dead.'
I want to yell back 'Neither do I' but my rage and sorrow
should not be directed at or used against her.
She begins to rock in the seat and moan and I gradually
make out the words 'my daddy' and 'dead'. I have an awful
realisation of the hash I have made of explaining the situation
to her. I hang my head, ashamed of such a mistake and sorry to have caused her this unnecessary extra suffering; she thinks I am talking about her father, the one who abandoned
the family when she was a child and was never heard
of again. She always spoke about him in a soft tone that
underlined how much she'd loved him. It had not occurred to me that there would be this confusion. I have made a balls of the task and the situation is now a Jot worse than it might have been. I review my options. I need to correct this, and fast.
'No, May,' I say, thinking that using her name will broaden the picture beyond our little family, lend a helpful distance. 'My dad is dead.'
She is slightly taken aback. 'Why are you telling me?'
'You knew him.'
Did I?' She really doesn't trust this information and clearly doesn't like the look of me. I have done nothing but bamboozle and upset her since I came through her front door.

'Yes, May, you knew him. His name was Stephen." I reach
for a framed photo of the three of us and point at my dad.
That man there.'
She decides to ignore this. Perhaps she doesn't recognise
him.
"Why did you say my daddy was dead?'
It was a misunderstanding.'
'A what?'
'A mistake.'
It was a rotten thing to do.'
She's not wrong there.
'My daughter is going to be very angry with you,' she tells
me, with considerable menace. Her face is twisted with fury.
'You can go now,' she adds, imperiously waving her hand to
gesture me away, horrid creature that I am.
She picks up the photograph and proceeds to have a
conversation with it, as if there are three people talking
though only she can make out what's being said. 'Really,
dear,' she says to my image, and laughs. 'What do you make
of that, Stephen?' she asks the representation of my dead
dad. Then she bursts into tears. I suppose its progress.
I go to make us some pasta, knowing I won't have any
but Mum must eat. At the kitchen sink I quietly, gently,
vomit up the contents of my depleted stomach. It doesn't
help much. I remember Dad holding my hair back once as
I threw up too much ice cream and chocolate into this sink.
'It's all right, sweetheart,' he'd said. 'Let it all out.' I start
to cry, aching for this moment magically to become then,
to feel his comfort and hear his voice. He can't help me
now.
A small voice calls from the door, 'Ellen, is it true that
Daddy is dead?'

News travelled fast in a small town and it didn't take long
for Simon Hill to hear of the death. He was not sure whether
he'd known Kitty long enough to call in person and offer his
condolences. Probably not. He rang her, to commiserate but
also anxious to talk and keep in touch. He wanted to help
if he could. She sounded glad to hear from him. He offered
to keep her company and, to his astonishment, she agreed.
He spent twenty minutes changing clothes, like a teenager,
inappropriate as it was for such a sad occasion. He battled
with the right choice of wine, too, wanting to bring a bottle
that struck a balance between good and not-over-the-top.
He sat still for a moment then and realised what a jerk all
of this calculation made him. He was acting like a predator,
for crying out loud. He changed back into what he had worn for the day and mussed up his hair again, but stayed with
the wine he'd chosen.
He arrived on Kitty's front step, breathless and disconcerted.
She looked heartbreakingly beautiful, he thought, as she
answered the door. The deep hollows under her extraordinary
eyes counterpointed them, and her hair, dragged back into
a severe bun, brought her cheekbones into focus more than
usual. Black clothing set off her milky skin and emphasised
her curves. Grief might be hell on earth but it suited Kitty
Fulton, at least externally. She smiled weakly and welcomed
him in.
The house was packed. This is what we do, it seemed to
say. We are a community: we gather, we comfort, we bring
food and drink. Simon held out his offering, tongue-tied. For
one flash-mad moment he felt he should have allowed himself
to dress up more for the occasion and immediately wanted
to kick himself for more of his arrant shallowness. A much
loved man had died and good people were hurting. He also
wished there weren't so many of them here, and again cursed
his fickle heart; this was not a fucking date, for chrissake.
Kitty took the bottle and said, 'You're very generous and this
is far too good.' She looked into his eyes a little longer than
necessary, or so he thought; so he hoped. He was a total heel,
he knew, for these calculations. 'Thank you for coming along.'
'I'm sorry for your loss.' It seemed depressingly inadequate.
She smiled as if she understood that this was the phrase
required at this juncture, this was what was said until more
meaningful words were available, until they were allowed to
speak in a more intimate language. I don't know her well
enough for that yet, he reminded himself, but I hope to. He
couldn't hug her by way of comfort and a handshake would
now be too late and lame. He had rarely felt so gawky and tall
and out of place. They stood there awkwardly a moment longer,
each hoping the other knew what to do next. Eventually, Kitty
moved off and he followed.
Simon was given a lot of names to put with as many faces
as they made their way through to the small kitchen. He
imagined he recognised some of them from the library, and
everyone seemed to know who he was. He thought of his
last posting, where he had been when his father had died.
No one had called around to his home - he'd discouraged
it - and the few who had wanted to offer condolences were
told to meet him at his local pub. This was a world away.
He was last to leave, though the hour was not late. He
found himself sitting in an armchair that was far too comfortable
in front of a real fire. May looked him over and decided
she liked him. She had a charming Irish burr as she repeated
his name. In fact, she said a lot of what he did over again.
'Is this a party?' she asked him.
'Sort of.'
'Sort of.' A nod. 'Do I know you?'
"We just met. I'm Simon.'
'Simon. Si... Are you nice?'
Such a difficult question to answer. 'I hope so.'
She nodded. 'I hope so.'
She checked who was looking then leaned toward him
and whispered loudly, 'Kitty is having an affair.'
He noticed her daughter stiffen.
"With a married man.'
Kitty reddened. 'You know about my mum,' she broke in.
"Yes, I had heard.'
"Well. . .' she shrugged and trailed off.
'The court case starts tomorrow,' May told him. 'The
television cameras are parked outside. Ask Dan, he'll tell
you all.'
Simon gave Kitty an understanding smile as he hauled
himself out of the chair and took his leave. Poor May was
obviously very far gone. He kissed Kitty on the cheek as he
bade her goodnight and promised to keep her up to date
with his researches into the Napoleonic ship. It would be a
welcome distraction, she told him. He stepped out into the
street and walked hurriedly away, ashamed of the carnal
longings he felt and how fickle they showed him to be.

Mum is having bad dreams and worse days. When she is
calm she is worried; when she's agitated she cannot be
reasoned with. I refuse to take the easy route and have her
sedated. She is entitled to her grief as much as I am, and
even if she does not entirely grasp where it has come from,
that in no way lessens her pain. She may be reliving the
hell of her own father dying, which happened at a remove.
He never returned to the family home and the news that
he had passed away arrived anecdotally, years after he was
gone. She once told me she always wondered if he truly
was dead or if it had been misreported. There was no way
of checking at the time. Later, I think she didn't want to
pursue it, preferring to believe he might still be out there
somewhere, remembering her now and again, maybe even
loving her from afar. Now I have delivered a terrible blow.
I wish I could help her more. I remind her each day that
we will bury Stephen in a week. It's a sadder variant of
telling her in advance about our holiday. That seems a lifetime
ago. Such carefree, lazy days.
The language I use to keep it simple for her negates much
of a daughterly claim to him on my part, in case that sets
her off again. In its way, dealing with her fills the terrible, slow time as we await our turn at the church to say farewell
to my father. Sorrow has its own relentless pace. This is only
slightly different from how I felt when I lost Dan. It has that
same dreamlike quality. I am functioning: I speak, I make
decisions, I fulfil my duties. But I wait to be pierced by sharp
pain at any moment. I feel horribly afraid all of the time.
I worry now that I disappointed Dad. I never went to
Cambridge, as he did, or any university for that matter. I
never showed any ambition. I had no interest in a lot of the
things that made him tick. He must have wondered where
they got me from. He worked hard at making his business
succeed in a famously tough market. I never showed any get
up and go, just faded into fat-arsed sloth in a dead-end job.
I worry I didn't tell him enough that I loved him.
I am stunned by the expressions of solidarity from people
who are virtual strangers to me but who knew Dad well,
worked for him, were published by him. Many knew Mum
in her heyday. The types crawling out of their woodwork are
so various as to make me feel even more humble. Dad's
literary and scholarly net was a mighty catchment area.
Miss Marshall helps me choose readers for the funeral. We
will have a mixture of liturgical tracts and secular poetry.
Everyone wants to be a part of it; the trouble is whittling
down the number of speakers. We'd need days if we allowed
everyone their moment.
'Why am I so sad?' Mum asks me, for the umpteenth
time.
'Because Stephen is dead.'
'Dead.' She tries to get her head around that concept.
'Oh,' she says, when it hits home. Tears are about to roll.
'Did I like him, dear?'
'Yes, very much.'
'That's sad.'
So sad, I want to tell her. Not least because, if you don't
remember him, I might as well not exist. In your mind I
don't, not as a daughter, or not all the time. What does that
make me? Who does that make me? I have only one parent
left and I am no one to her. I feel I am slowly disappearing.
I too am being cancelled out by her greedy disease. It takes
more than one when it comes.

May had her first accident that night. She came into Kitty's
room and said, 'Ellen wet the bed. She's upset.'
They peeled off the sodden sheets and propped the
mattress against the wall to dry. They changed May's pyjamas
and she climbed into her daughters bed, excited at the treat,
the reason for it already receding from her mind or else
obliterated altogether. Kitty said a small prayer that this was a one-off. She wasn't sure she was up to a life of incontinence pads and rubber matting. The following morning her mattress was dry beneath them.
The house was filled with cards and flowers. May was delighted by it afresh, hour by hour, although it was explained they were not celebrating a happy day but a sad one. She told anyone who would listen that her daddy had been murdered. She began to have nightmares straight out of horror movies, which was when Kitty started to monitor her television consumption properly and control what she watched. The amount of violence on air at any time was gobsmacking. She was careful not to let May have too much to drink in the evenings, and loo breaks were regularly enforced. There was no more bed-wetting. They somehow
got through to the day of the service and burial.
May's wardrobe didn't extend to much in the way of dark
clothing. She went for colours, often very bright and clashing.
Over the years the pieces had been adapted to leave her
some independence, which meant elasticated waists, slip-on
shoes or ones with Velcro fastenings, sweaters rather than
cardigans. Fussy, fiddly clothes were too much of a challenge
so now she looked as if she went for extreme comfort
when, in "fact, function was everything. Even her overcoat had a tie belt rather than one with a buckle. Kitty managed
to get her into a largely navy ensemble with pink and white
highlights to set it off. She was adamant about the pink scarf,
it being her current favourite colour by a long shot. Kitty
threw on her own winter coat and hat and grabbed a handbag.
They were about to set forth when Jed appeared, holding a
container of plants. It was a square pot filled with ornate
coloured cabbages and variegated ivies, arranged to perfection,
worthy of a television gardening programme.
'Fer yer daad,' he said gruffly, handing it over. 'An' yew
both. Sorry fer yer troubles.' He coughed a bit, looking up
and down the street to alleviate the embarrassment.
Kitty knew not to be effusive. Jed didn't do sentiment, or
never admitted to it, although Kitty had seen him cry as he
dug his plot over, glad of the exertion to mask this weakness,
his loneliness. So she told him the truth. 'It's the most
beautiful thing, Jed. I don't know how to thank you.'
'Ollust liked yer daad. Ollust good fer a mardle.' It was
true they'd chatted, and laughed quietly too, man to man,
whenever her father visited the allotment. Stephen had loved
the broad beans she grew and liked to help harvest them.
He'd made the same jokes every year about Norfolk Broads,
both fens and women. Every year Kitty had smacked him
gently with her gardening gloves, telling him they were the
worst puns ever. Another thing she could never again do.
She thought her father might have liked to publish a book
about Jed and his ilk, to record their disappearing ways and
speech. Only the older people had that particular strangled
drawl now. Jed called it his 'drant'. Everyone else's speech
was becoming standardised. Her father had loved language
and now would never speak again. She gulped back an
involuntary moan.
'Yer goin ter church?'

'Yes.'

'We'll walk tergether.'
Jed took the outside of the path, to be their protector
in the most old-fashioned and touching way. They walked
along in silence, Kitty linking arms with May, and as they
did other neighbours joined until they had the makings
of a protest march. I am glad we never got a car, Kitty
thought.

I have made a selfish decision but cannot regret it. I have
decided to bury Dad locally. I want him close. I need him
to be near me as we face further into the unknown.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I hear him laugh at a
poem scanning he once read me of a Donald Rumsfeld
speech about known knowns and unknown knowns and
unknown unknowns. I thought he would be sick with merriment
that day. The memory tears through me and I cough
into my hand to mask any other sound I may have made, remembering it. So, we are on our way to St Boniface's for his service. Afterwards we take the short walk to the cemetery and then home to serve tea and sandwiches and tell
fond stories. I picture the station, trains disgorging more mourners. The Fultons are good for business today. The other passengers will wonder whose funeral these people
are attending so, in their unwitting way, they too will think
of my father. I feel it is only fitting.
We arrive in a neighbourly entourage at the little church
and I am astonished to find it full to bursting. I wish Dad
were here to see his turn-out. He'd probably laugh and say
something self-deprecating like, 'I must owe more money
than I thought.' The Vicar resists the opportunity to talk
about anyone or anything but Dad in his address and I am
grateful to him for this. There is a comfort in the liturgy too.
It's inclusive and communal. This surprises me, in a good
way. I have no system of belief, I barely have hope any more,
but this soothes me. It is helping.
The sight of so many different people moved by the passing
of a decent man is unbearably touching. It gets to Mum who starts to giggle.
'Sister Vincent's not here, is she?' she whispers.
'No,' I say.
'Pity. She'd definitely go to hell if she set foot here in a
Protestant church. The bad bitch.' That sets her off again but
there is a choking note to the sound now. She blows her nose.
A large hairy poet has to stop speaking during his reading
to catch his breath and staunch his sorrow. He looks like a
labourer or farmhand, with his huge features and haphazard
clothes, but to hear him speak is to be transported. His rich
voice catches occasionally as he reads a poem he has written
in tribute to my father. Miss Marshall remains behind dark
glasses but holds a tissue under her nose for the duration to
catch her tears. The soloist's voice wobbles at the start of
'Abide With Me'. Many people reach out to touch the coffin
as it leaves the church to begin its final journey to the graveyard,
and it affects me so much I worry I won't be able to
stay upright. Mum is sobbing freely now.
'Tell me again who is dead,' she asks me.
'Stephen. My dad.'
She stops in her tracks, aghast. 'But he has my memories.
He was minding them for me. What will I do? How
will I manage?'
'It's all right,' I assure her. 'I have those for you now.
Please don't worry. I have your memories.'
'Promise?'
'Promise.'

Simon nodded at the Station Master as he took a place opposite
him by the side of the open grave where Kitty and May
were standing. Dan Gibbs was accompanied by a pale, pregnant
blonde. They both wore wedding bands and Simon
assumed that this was Mrs Gibbs. Neither of the pair could
take their eyes off Kitty. He could see why. In her dark coat
and large beret she looked like a forties film star. He remembered
seeing hanks of yarn at her house and wondered which
of the women had knitted the hat. He didn't know a lot
about fashion but it looked like a couture item to his untrained
eye. Whoever made it should have gone into business.
Kitty and May stepped forward and each threw some
earth down on to the coffin. Boards were laid across the
grave and dressed with many floral tributes, and the invitation
circulated to go back to their house for refreshments.
Simon hovered at Kitty's back, ready to help with anything
that was needed. He wasn't sure if she had actually noticed
him at all so far. He was joined by a gnarled old codger,
also looking out for the women. The older man watched
Dan Gibbs with hawk-like scrutiny, something Simon felt
to be significant. He filed it away in his librarian's system.
Scrawny Mrs Gibbs looked over at Kitty with barely
concealed envy. He wondered if she was jealous of her
quite numinous beauty. Then he recalled May's words about
Kitty having an affair with a married man and wondered
if perhaps they might not have been the ravings of a
demented woman. His stomach gave a strange heave.
Kitty turned and smiled at him. Another lurch, more
pleasant this time. 'Simon,' she said, and reached for his
hand, but not to shake it, to hold it. Do not look surprised
or act awkwardly, he warned himself. They walked from the
graveyard like that, as if it was the most natural thing in the
world. For Simon it felt like a thrillingly intimate gesture.
He prayed his hands would not turn clammy as his brain
told them this was in no way regular or familiar and was, in
fact, potentially filled with new and deep significance.

I wish I didn't have to look straight into Donna's face for
the burial but she has planted herself and Dan right across
from me. She holds her hands over her bump which I am
certain she is thrusting forward for all to see, but especially
me. Dan cannot meet my eye but I know he is watching me
closely. I concentrate on Dad and handling this last rite with
dignity for him. I think of the small, customised job I had
done to his coffin. What no one knows is that I got an illustrator
who'd worked with him to paint silver stars on a navy
night sky on the inside of the lid, to light his way to his next
incarnation or maybe just to please him where he lies.
I hope he will have another opportunity at an existence,
if he'd like it. He deserves many lives and I know he will
be wonderful in all of them. God speed, I say, in my mind.
I don't know how else to put it, or whoever and whatever
to invoke that might loosely be said to be in charge of this
glorious mess we call life. If there is continuity, my father
should be part of it. He is one of the good guys. If these
are foolish thoughts so be it, as long as they can lend me
comfort in my shattered world and help me move forward.
I have to motor on for two as Mum will need all the help
I can give her.
The Vicar speaks about remembrance. 'Lord, You have
called Your servant Stephen to You. His mortal body has left
us but we remember his kindness and love. His family will
cherish precious memories and, even as You welcome him
to Your heavenly kingdom and grant him eternal life, so shall
he live on in the minds of those who loved him here on
earth.'
He has no way of knowing that memory is the central
problem in our household. I zone out for a moment,
wondering about the things I cannot remember about my
dad, things I can never know because he never told me,
memories never shared that have gone with him to the
grave. If he never passed these on to me, did they matter
in the first place? Do we lose anything by never having it
at all? Is Mum's condition so different? She is simply living
in advance that aspect of death: the forgetting, the oblivion.
I turn my attention to the Vicar who is quoting from the
book he's holding. '"Remember me",' he reads aloud. Poor
old Hamlet got that same instruction from his fathers ghost
and was never the better for it, not that I am comparing
myself with Hamlet, because I am not. Mum turns and whispers, 'Remember me,' but I am unsure if she's telling
me to or repeating the words she's just heard. I squeeze
her hand and say, 'I will.' I am, I want to add. I am remembering
you every day.
The air is icy, the light crystal as if all is clear and logical.
A robin sits on a nearby headstone. I see Jed nod to himself.
He believes these birds are lost friends returned to visit. I'd
like to think this one is Dad and that he's pleased with how
the day is going. I want him to be proud of us. Many people
crowd around to offer condolences. They are kind and say
how lovely they found the service. It was beautiful, I am
glad to agree.
I catch Donna looking at me with what can only pass for
jealousy. What . . . now? My father is dead. Surely there is
nothing in that situation that she wants for herself. She
is probably just furious not to be centre of attention, especially
now that she's pregnant. Her needy crankiness makes
my back ache with exhaustion.
We make for home and I find that I am walking hand in
hand with Simon Hill. It feels comfortable but not in an
over-familiar way. It's almost as if we have done this before,
though we have not, and that's something to think about at
another time. Right now my plate is full with other urgent
matters. When we get to the house, I introduce him to Jed
who is like a mother hen clucking after Mum and me.
'Jed made us a beautiful planter,' I tell Simon, and burst
into tears.
TEN

When I wake each morning I have an average of three
minutes before reality hits. One hundred and eighty precious
seconds, then . . . my father is dead, Dan is gone, my mother
is leaving me. This blow to the soul gets me, fresh and raw,
every day. I have to be up before Mum to steal a march on
her day as well as mine, which means I have no choice but
to get out of bed. I don't allow myself to stew in my own
misery first thing otherwise everything will fall apart. As it
is, the house is returning to our usual warped normality. As
each bunch of flowers dies and is added to the compost
heap, I have fewer questions to answer about why they're
there in the first place. I removed all the sympathy cards
the day after the funeral and immediately the house looked
a lot less festive and confusing. I try not to wear black from
head to toe, much as I want to. The weather is vile and suits
my mood.
Today is a big one as I'm to attend the reading of Dad's
will with Miss Marshall in the afternoon. It's a week since
we buried him but it feels like a year has passed, and slowly
at that. I don't want Mum along as it will only dredge up
things she cannot understand and make her unhappy. Life
is hard enough without that, for both of us. I did question
my motives, wondering if I was excluding her to make my
own lot easier, but after much mental flagellation I decided
this was the best course. In the meantime I try hard to
concentrate at the station office. I've been finding work a
massive chore ever since I got back from Egypt but, considering
everything that's happened, that's hardly surprising.
I returned to the station immediately after Dad's funeral,
thinking it best to keep up some sort of routine. Dan and I
skirt about each other, of necessity, like magnets repelling
one another. Neither of us is finding this easy. Roly has taken
up full-time residence and decides today is the day he will
grace my knee with his furry bulk. It has been a slow gradual
progression across the office, from the Lost and Found
shelves, to a box of paper under my desk, then on to the
desk itself. The day he began to head-butt me while he stood
on the computer keypad, rewriting the accounts as he did
so, I knew we were in business as pals. I have tried to explain
to him that the computer's bits are not for him to roll about
on or play with, but I am wasting my breath. It's pointless
trying to reason with him a lot of the time. His progress has
had an inexorability about it that has made me grin when I
thought I might never smile again. 'You got your invisibility
cloak on?' I tease as he mooches about. He ignores me,
which means he thinks I can't see him, which in turn means
that he's wearing it all right.
Here's an interesting thing: he doesn't much like Dan who
says it's because he's not a cat person, more of a dog man.
Could be. Roly is a smart cookie and he hasn't survived this
long in the wild without knowing a thing or two. Perhaps he
senses that Dan is not a fan and therefore stays away, not
wanting to waste his feline time, or could it be that he sees
something he doesn't approve of and is making a stand against
it? Intriguing.
I really value Roly's friendship. I feel alone in the office
now that lines have been drawn between Dan and me, and
I don't see much of Benny in the way of things. I play the
radio and chat with Roly and help the customers with their
journeys, and somehow we make the day become evening
and time to go home. It would be a lot harder without the
cat's kindness. He is one of the few creatures who does not refer to me as 'poor Kitty'. I do not want that title. I am not
a victim. I don't want to believe I am in any way to be pitied.
Mind you, a neighbour told me I was brave last week and that was no better. I nearly laughed outright. I am not brave,
I am merely getting on with it. And that's largely because I
have no choice in the matter.
Roly was 'done' a few years ago when he took to spraying the station with honky tomcat hormones and dragging himself in with angry-looking cuts, torn ears and limps, from proving
himself around the greater Pennick area. Steps were taken
though Benny in particular was horrified by the plan. We
got hold of a special trap from the Animal Welfare people
and baited it with my chicken risotto which Roly is unable
to resist. Benny was so upset by the incident he would not
talk to me for a week. Roly made me feel horribly guilty too
by worrying his stitches and walking about the station with
a bloodied snout. But in time he began to let me pet him
again and we took it from there. Today he is on my lap and
purring so hard the noise is distorted. Maybe if I had chopped
Dan's balls off he would have grown to adore me like the
cat does. Instead, Donna did it and she got him.
The paper is full of the latest famous person to admit to
having Alzheimer's so the radio is full of talk about it too.
High-profile victims are gold dust. Everyone says what a
disgrace it is that the health system denies younger sufferers
free meds that would arrest the progress of the disease and,
ultimately, delay their becoming a complete burden on the
system. That is what's happening now. It defies logic but I
have long ago stopped my ranting on that subject, too busy
coping with the curse. There'll be a brouhaha for a few days,
then everyone who is not personally affected will forget about
it until next time. There is a reminder that Charlton Heston
died with Alzheimer's and that makes for nice photo opportunities
in the papers. I see a few shots of Ronald Reagan,
too, another high-flyer who had it. The feel-good tag is news
of a promising scientific discover)' that the venom of a
tropical cone snail may hold the key to treatments for heart
failure, obesity and Alzheimer's. Too late for the Fultons and
their Alzheimer's. Too late for Dad and his dicky heart.
Where was this snail hiding when we needed him most?
Dan creeps in on eggshells. These are of his own strewing,
not mine, I'm too wrung out to be nasty or vengeful to him.
His long face is actually beginning to annoy me and I take it
as a very good sign that I might eventually mend, in a century
or so. Roly senses a shift in the atmosphere and takes off for
the tartan rug handed in yesterday off the Kings Lynn connector.
I remind Dan that I'll be gone from two o'clock and he winces
like I've struck him. For God's sake, the man is falling apart;
that's supposed to be my bag. OK, I'm fractious, I'll admit it. He'd do well to stay out of my way for the time being. I take
the bad temper as a positive sign too. At least it shows I have
some energy. I touch my dad's watch, which I still wear as a
talisman, and, unbidden, the mourning cloud descends on me
full strength. I wonder if I will ever be happy again.

The offices of Hartley & Benson had an oaky-panelled air
of reliability and looked like they dated from the turn of a
century long past, so it was a surprise to be introduced to a
young blade wearing a trendy shirt and ironic cufflinks: Kitty
had expected a waistcoated ancient with grey whiskers and a pipe. He was Jason Hartley, he explained, great-grandson
of the original founder of the firm. She felt gratified to see
him use a fountain pen at least. When they were sunk into
further soft leather furnishings with a cup of tea each and
some Digestives, Jason Hartley delivered the first in his list
of surprise announcements. This was that May and Stephen
Duke had actually been man and wife, married some thirty
years ago.
A secretary brought in a cloth then to mop up Kitty's
spilled tea, and some water to help clear her throat of the
lump of biscuit swallowed on the sharp intake of breath when
she'd heard that.
'Unexpected news,' young Mr Hartley observed.
Even Miss Marshall was surprised. 'I had no idea,' she
told Kitty, anxious to clear up that point.
'Bloody hell,' was all Kitty could offer.
'There's more,' Jason Hartley warned.
Kitty nodded. I'll put the tea down.'
The business went to her. She was now the owner of
Duke Publishing. A trust fund had been set up to meet
May's medical bills. Various small personal bequests were
made, including five thousand pounds for Miss Marshall
plus a tiny Lowry drawing she'd always loved. A sealed
letter had been left for Kitty. Her hand shook as she saw
her name on it, written in her father's artistic scrawl. Jason
Hartley suggested to Miss Marshall that they should leave
Kitty to read it alone. He took her on a brief tour of the
premises while her new boss was left to commune in
private with her dead father.
My Dearest Kitten,
I'll race through the usual spiel about 'If you're reading
this now I am no longer with you' and so on (whoever
knew my life would imitate a movie in any way, eh?),
but sadly that's what we are faced with. Sorry. I did not
plan it this way. By now you will also know that your
mother and I have been married a long time. We did
that to safeguard your inheritance and I hope you don't
mind. May and I were never going to manage living
together, mores the pity, so we left your surname as
Fulton, though I would have been most chuffed to call
you Kitty Duke. It has a nice ring to it, I hope you'll
agree.
Now you own Duke Publishing and I know that will
be a shock. It has never been a huge aspect of your
daily life, but I wonder if perhaps it ought to be. And
that is a thought I'll leave you with. You may decide
to sell it on, as is your prerogative, but do give some
thought to running it yourself, even for a little while,
to see how you like it. Its a well-oiled machine, with
Marie Marshall doing all her surname suggests.
Cameron Field is an excellent poetry editor and has
great taste. Victor Long handles the academic side and
is a safe pair of hands. All three are also your Board
of Directors, and your wonderful mother would be
with them too were it not for her cursed affliction.
The firm is holding its own, in difficult times, with the
academic list bringing in enough to underwrite the
more literary side. There are some projects underway
that I hope you will see to fruition before you make
any momentous decision. Give it a try, Kit, won't you?
You might like it.
And it may be time to get away from that station. I
think you have given enough of your life to it. Also, I
suspect you are more of a chip off the old blocks than
you realise: between your mothers legacy and my own,
I know there is talent in you that just needs a bit of
bringing out. This is that opportunity.
I'll miss you and I know you will miss me, but please
know that no father could have been prouder of his
beautiful, kind and courageous daughter. I have been
the blessed one.
With all my love,
Your Dad

When we were kids, Dan and I loved to sit and chat under
a massive oak tree near the allotments. Donna thought just
lazing around was boring and usually headed off early in a
mood. We'd talk idly about what we wanted to be when we
grew up. That never took Donna long. She would be a top
model and divide her time between London and New York.
She had little interest in hearing about our aspirations and
would go off then to get ice creams or hook up with her
older sisters if they let her. Include me out,' she'd say and
flounce off. She was perfecting a hair toss at the time and
this was good practice. We knew she'd be back and never
worried that she had actually fallen out with us. Dan and I
had no problem day-dreaming in each other's company,
silently or aloud.
I'd like to drive a train,' was a favourite opening gambit
of his. It morphed into designing them for a few months
when he was fourteen and I can't remember why it was that
he dropped that idea. He was probably crap at drawing, or
thought he was, I don't recall exactly. He had a habit of
scotching his own notions before ever letting them fly. He
was good at arguing with himself and putting himself down.
It meant he did very little that was constructive towards
achieving any goal, like trying to be an engineer. Perhaps
that removed any chance of failure too. Of course, I say this
with the benefit of hindsight.
Me: "Where would you go?'
Dan: 'All over. First England and then on from there.'
Me: 'I could be a passenger. I want to see the world.' (I
have no idea where the money was to come from, though I
did nurture a brief yen to be an air stewardess. Maybe I was
more practical than I realised.)
Dan: I'd better get a job on the Orient Express.'
Me: 'You could invite me to the engine cab and we'd
whizz along and laugh a lot.'
Dan: 'When the relief driver took over in the evening, we could sit in the beautiful bar and drink cocktails.'
Me: "And watch the world go by.'
Dan: 'And laugh.'
We never did get to be that 'coupla swells' and I can't
remember the last time we shared a laugh, unfettered and
ribsore. If ever we speak of our ambitions any more they
seem paltry, prosaic. Dan uses a strange tense that sums up
our wasted lives. It goes along the lines of 'I'd have liked to
have been', full of regret and failure. To give Donna her due,
at least she made a bolt for it. She got out, even if it didn't
last. I suppose she would say that was worse in the long run,
because she caught a glimpse of what might have been.
The letter is rustling in my trembling hand. I am now the
owner of a thriving business. I don't deserve it. My heart
wants to burst at Dad's generosity and it quakes at his belief
in me. I feel nauseous.
I remember Donnas expression at the graveside. She looked
like she hated me. She may do. Isn't it widely believed that we
hate what we fear most? I feel a little better for that thought.
A little ashamed too, but I'm used to that. Donnas really going
to resent this latest turn up, perhaps even more than my relationship
with Dan. This line of reasoning lets me know I am
going to take on Dad's challenge. He thought I might be up
for it and maybe I am. I hope so. There's a lot riding on it.
Now I am scared as well as nauseous but, again, that's no new
thing. I am not an erudite woman but I hope I am not a stupid
one either. I rather think we are all about to find out.
Simon had to admit he had become a little obsessed with
the idea that Kitty was having an affair. He constantly
reminded himself that this news had been delivered by a
woman no longer in full possession of her mental faculties,
but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made.
And it stood to reason that the other party was Dan Gibbs.
They worked together. They had known each other since
childhood. Their allotments were close by. Why this last
detail counted he was at a loss to know but it did, for him
at least, in the building of a case for his theory. He made
casual enquiries about the station and its personnel and, as
far as he could glean, Dan was the only likely candidate.
With each new clue he felt a little more ensnared. He could
not let it alone. He worried it like a scab on a soft healing
wound, giving himself further pain and making things worse.
If it turned out that his conjectures were wrong he knew his
new starting point would be a whole lot worse for the hard
time he'd already given himself. He almost hoped it was Dan Gibbs with whom Kitty was having this affair, which
might or might not be happening. He was prepared for that.
He wondered what qualities he had that might be to his
advantage in any competition for Kitty's affections. He put
together a list of attributes in his mind that could be seen
as wholesome or attractive. He was easy-going, but that was
more a trait than anything else. Other descriptions like 'tall'
didn't hack it either in convincing the rest of humanity, and
one person in particular, that he was worthy of attention.
He was easy on the eye as a package, he assumed, never
having had any complaints in that department. He was slightly
worried that 'easy' was turning up so often on this list. He
certainly had been a pushover for women to get into bed
up until now, not something he'd willingly boast about.
He thought of advertisements in Singles columns where
a good sense of humour seemed important. He had a GSOH
and he hoped he made people laugh occasionally too. That
must count as a plus, he felt. He was smart, in an academic
way, and clever enough in a streetwise one. He wore his intelligence
lightly, after all it wasn't rocket science, and his job
wasn't one that would save the world except incrementally,
he hoped, by encouraging people to read and explore. He
knew he'd been loyal to his family of two but they were dead
now. He had never made such firm friends that he was asked
for loyalty in a major way as opposed to just being there regularly,
making up numbers almost. He was generous. He hoped
he could be loving. He wondered if he could be trusted.
This exercise was a depressing one, he concluded, leaving
him with a fairly poor sense of self-worth. He tried once
more. I am kind to animals, he thought, and (more often
than not) people. Surely that's a positive? Oh, hell, he was
a work in progress, but who was not?
He resolved to win her attention, at least in part, with the
results of his search into the Napoleonic boat. He was now
certain that was what they had here. In fact, this research
project was the most focused aspect of his life, the rest being
mostly in turmoil because of Kitty Fulton. At the library he
spent far too much time walking the floor in case she came
to exchange a book. He also walked around the town unnecessarily,
though it also meant he was a regular feature
there now and had a lot more nodding acquaintances. He
wandered past the allotments, in case he might catch a
glimpse of her, and often chatted with Jed, which was interesting
but tough as the old man had a vocabulary of which
Simon had no previous knowledge. He was making inroads,
though, and they were not as divided by a common language
as they had been at the start. He had no real reason to visit
the train station and longed to have a journey to make so
that he could see her there.
Clearly, the best way to show himself off to Kitty Fulton
was to accumulate as much information as possible about
her little ship, make an appointment to discuss it with
her, and thereupon mesmerise her with the scale of his
discoveries.

Miss Marshall is very kind about my being her new boss.
She is probably dismayed, though, and I, for one, would not
blame her if she were.
'I think I should just take over as a kind of caretaker for
the moment, if that's acceptable? I am not convinced I will
ever be able to do the job my father did. In fact, it would
be ridiculous to think I could. I know nothing about
publishing or any of the areas you cover.'
'Kitty, I just run the office. I do the grunt work. I have
very little to do with the literary side of things,' Miss Marshall
says. 'Your father obviously thought this a good plan.'
I think I am still in shock. I suffer from bouts of trembling
that are unpredictable and sometimes quite violent.
'Why don't we go back to the office?' Miss Marshall
suggests. 'You can have a look around and let this sink in.
You might even get a feel for the place.'
I'm flying blind here, as I have not the slightest notion
where to begin, so I agree. I still cannot bring myself to call
her Marie. It doesn't sit right with me.
In my head, we 'repair' to the office. I hope this doesn't
mean I have flowery taste in vocabulary. I don't think I do,
but I'm still having rushes of blood to the head and must
let them roll over me till I get the hang of at least looking
the part. If pushed, I'd say I like beauty without pretension.
I don't mind flashy occasionally, as long as the embellishment
is earned. Dad always told me his work was about
personal taste a lot of the time; that much is subjective in
the world of art. In a climate of fads and constant artsy
change your own taste is about all you can rely on - and
even then it's hard to trust yourself fully.
It's disconcerting to see his desk, left just as it was when
he went to buy that final jar of coffee. I circle it tentatively
before sitting down in his swivel chair. I catch the faintest
suggestion of him. It runs through me like electricity. When
I was a kid I loved to twirl around on this but today I settle
for a milder side-to-side action. There is a framed photo of
the three of us on holiday in the Lake District, years ago,
in pride of place on the desk. It doesn't have a label explaining
who we are so it looks different from the ones I see at home
every day. Alongside it is a small black-and-white shot of me
as a child. I feel such love emanating from his chosen display
that I could break under the crushing emotion of it all. 'Oh,
Dad,' I say, remembering the feel of him at the hospital just
after he left the world. 'Oh, Dad.'
I am not up to going through his things properly today. I
just want to let the atmosphere permeate through me. I'm
afraid of all that working here entails, afraid that I will fail him. All that will have to wait a while. But not long, a voice
tells me. No, not long. If there is one thing I do know, and
have learned bitterly, it is that we don't have the luxury of
'long'. Time is fleeting and precious.
I do fiddle about with the top layer of papers and already
I can see some of the unfinished business he meant to attend
to. He went so suddenly that his desk diary is crammed for
weeks ahead with events he will never now attend. It hits
me then like a ten-ton truck that I will have to clear out his
house too. I sit there winded, gripping the desk. The shakes
return. I am in no mood for swinging in the chair now. I
just want to sit here, feeling him all around me still, able to
believe that he might come walking through the door at any
moment, in spite of all knowledge to the contrary. Just a
little longer, I tell myself, and hope he doesn't mind. I am
afraid my dithering will hold his spirit back in the world he
has forsaken so I resolve to put a time limit on my self
indulgence. Easier said than done.
And I'm not sure I really believe in spirits, hovering or
gone elsewhere. I have always thought we die and that's that,
but the comforting notion of an Other World appeals to me
now and I imagine Anubis, the Egyptian jackal god of death,
looking after my father there, figuring out why he has so
many books of poetry with him rather than grain and fowl,
or gold to pay the ferryman to the Underworld. I can only
hope that dark sailor is a man of letters and the arts. I imagine
a frieze, picturing Dad in formal profile on a funeral barque,
bathed in a radiant light that speaks to me of happiness.
There is a note scribbled on a xeroxed page of poetry, slipped
into the jotter, It says, 'Show Kitty, ref ancient graffiti'. The
verse is by Byron, of all people. How like Dad to make no
concession to my lack of scholarship.

. . . approach this consecrated land
And pass in peace along the magic waste:
But spare its relics - let no busy hand
Deface the scenes, already how defaced!

I wonder where in the world the poet is writing about. I
must look it up. I only realise I am crying when Miss Marshall
hands me a tissue.
Kitty took the train home to Pennick, alighted at the familiar
station and checked that no harm had befallen the office.
Someone had left a schoolbag on the 16.26 from Fetchley,
which would provide the perfect excuse not to do any homework.
She looked inside and found it belonged to Amanda
Pike. Unlucky for Amanda, then, that Kitty knew where she
lived and delivered it to her door as it was on her way home.
She wasn't being mean; it was a bulky item and they didn't
have room for unnecessary clutter in the office. She saw
neither Benny, Roly nor Dan, and was glad of that. She didn't
know what to say to any of them. Big changes were in the
offing and she needed time to think and plot her next move.
These decisions were hers to make, for better or worse; she
should not involve anyone else.
Val was waiting to hear her news. He had taken over supervisory
duties when May returned from the day's outing to the
local miniature pony centre. When Kitty told him she had
inherited the business, he shrugged and said, 'Stands to reason.'
Was she the only one to be surprised? Scratch surprised,
she was shocked to her core and the shakes started up again.
Glass of wine for you, my dear,' Val said, and went to
make good on the offer.
'I want a pony,' May told her.
"We'll talk about it later.'
'You never let me have anything.'
Her mother sat on her favourite chair, pouting, but relaxed
when Val presented her with a white wine spritzer.
'You don't want her rat-arsed and troublesome,' he said
to Kitty.
'Amen to that.'
'Fizzy,' May said, tasting the drink and happy with it.
Val smiled indulgently at her. 'Chris Cant was freaked
because he thought someone had shrunk the horses. May
told him he was a stupid boy and that they were dogs.'
'Can we get a dog?' her mother piped up.
'We'll see.'
'Grumpy bum,' May said, smiling as if butter wouldn't
melt.
ELEVEN


Kitty's always wanted what I had. She always has, and probably
always will. Kind of strange, seeing as how she was so
spoiled at every turn, but then she has that doe-eyed way
about her that makes you feel she's being neglected when
the opposite is true. Or that's how it seems to me. She's had
it cushy. All I ever heard from her is, 'You're so lucky, you've
got this, that and the other.' Well, let me tell you, luck doesn't
come into it. Never has, never seems to want to.

She's always had this weird crush on me. And Dan, of
course, but we'll deal with that later. When we were kids
she'd follow me around like a stray pup. The more I tried
to get rid of her, the more she stuck, so I sort of gave in, I
suppose you could say, and let her be with me. Wasn't all
bad, we had a laugh. But I did get sick of her taking up what
little space we had spare in our house, mooning over everything
we had - or didn't have, more like. She seemed to
think it was great to live in a place like an asylum - didn't
know squit about it. As kids we never had things of our own,
everything was some kind of hand-me-down. Even if you
liked your sisters best dress you knew it'd be knackered by
the time it got to you, a whisper of what you had wanted.
Shoes were the worst, if they survived an older sister, all
dark stains from skinned heels and wonky if they walked to
one side. Mostly the shoes didn't make it down the line,
unless they were dressy, special occasion shoes, and thank
fuck for that.
Everyone thought Kitty was harmless but then things started
to happen and I began to wonder about that. She destroyed
my birthday present once. Hadn't had it more than two hours
before it was broken. I knew it wasn't any of my family; I had
ways of checking. It had to be Kitty. Made sense, too. I waited
for her to tell me, like she should have if she was really the
best friend she was supposed to be. She never did. That should
have told me all I needed to know. But I was a kid. I got over
it and moved on. It was only later I got to realising its significance.
But that's always the way. You know later what would
have been really handy at the time and saved a shit-load of
grief coming down. I mean, we could have avoided other
things happening. And maybe I did know it was a memory I
should hang on to because I didn't throw the broken bits away
but kept them as a reminder of treachery at the hands of
somebody close to me.
So, she had this crush on me, and for a short while when
we were teens it got intense. That was a mad time. Whatever.
She took it all so seriously. I didn't mind finding a few things
out but, to look at Kitty and her carry-on then, you'd think
it was a major love affair or something. I mean, really. I
wanted to say, Get over it, move on with your life. It's what
I did and what I've always done. When you come nowhere
in a big family, you have to make your mark or get swallowed
up and overlooked. That's made me very independent
and I have fought for everything I've achieved. I sometimes
wonder if Kitty knows the meaning of hard work.
Dan saved me from a lot, though I don't think he entirely
realised it at the time. He was the third member of our gang
and the best one too. I might have killed Kitty if it hadn't
been for him. He made the arrangement bearable.
Strange that someone as seemingly bland as Dan could
have two women on the go. But he does. I think it's the fact
that he is so open and encouraging and he really does believe
everything he says at the very moment he's saving it. I think
he's incapable of giving anyone bad news like 'I'm having an
affair with your best friend' or 'I don't love you any more'
or 'My wife is having our baby and I am committed to us'.
Some would say this is cowardly but maybe it's a sort of
warped kindness. I have known him so long I can hardly
find it in myself to judge him any more. I wouldn't know
where to start. Can't see the wood for the trees type of thing.
The Kitty, me and him thing goes way, way back. Sounds
better in the French: a menage a trois. The French always
seem to make unsavoury things acceptable by the words they
use. It is the very sound of romance, that language. We were
all a bit in love with one another, I guess. Dan and me just
went further. It seemed natural. Of course, I knew Kitty was
mad about him too, a blind man could have spotted that,
but I always knew he'd be mine if I wanted. And I did
want him.
I'd always planned on leaving Hicksville. Pennick had
nothing to offer, so I played out my time at school and waited
for the day when I could split. I wanted to be a model. I
had the looks, the drive. A Town Called Panic had nothing
for me in that area so I had to get out. I had a few shots at
making it but they didn't end up the way I'd thought they
would. Turned out I was always going to be the country
bumpkin. I remember hearing one photographer in a warehouse
in the East End of London snigger and describe me
as: 'Luscious. All Norfolk cow and milkiness.' Then the next
minute he was mid-patter with his, The camera LOVES
you, Donna, really, really LOVES you.' I was the wholesome
summer fuck for a city boy on a farm holiday. 'All cometobedeyes
and open,' as I heard him say into the phone.
Bastard. Sniffing constantly from too much coke and opportunity.
Fuck him. And he did want me to by the end of the
session, by the way. I made sure of that. 'Yeah, right, go fuck
yourself, mister,' is what he got told then. I felt fat and useless
and I knew I wasn't; I hadn't had a square meal in three
years and I wasn't afraid of hard graft.
Kitty had her own opportunity to get out. She was bright
enough to do well and go to college. Instead she flunked
her exams and stayed put. I always suspected she did it to
be close to Dan, maybe even me too. She's never had much
ambition. You couldn't describe her job at the station as
any great shakes. But she seems content with little enough.
Of course Dan got her that and she jumped at the chance
to work alongside him every day. Took me ages to see what
was going on there. I felt so belittled when I did but, by
then, I had other things to worry about and it didn't seem
like such a big fucking deal. Amazing how time can skew
a situation.
Whenever I came home, after each and every knock back,
Dan was there for me. I took a lot of my frustration out on
him, but he was my rock. We became even closer. I got pregnant.
Old story, I know, I know. That's when I knew I was
a proper Pennick gal, all right, because we were never not
getting married, if you know what I mean. We never considered
any other alternative, actually. Never wanted to. I didn't
mind that bit. I really didn't want to be knocked up, though.
I could tell from Kitty's eyes that she thought I'd deliberately
trapped Dan. Well, lady, I wanted to say, it takes two.
Maybe the baby sensed the resentment. Maybe I hadn't
enough vitamins in me after the years of slimming or downright
starvation. Maybe the world wasn't ready for him and
he knew it. He didn't last. It was a he, as it happens. I thought that was the worst pain I would ever feel, but it wasn't. Kitty and Dan saw to that.
I was adrift after the miscarriage. Dan didn't know how
to help me and, because I didn't know how to help myself,
I couldn't steer him in any particular direction. I didn't care
about anything. That's when he gave Kitty the job at the
station. I felt so lonely. I never got the hunger back for my
modelling career either. It didn't seem important any more.
I wanted the baby very badly once I couldn't have him and
I felt so terribly guilty, too, like I had killed him somehow
with my body's poisonous resentment. I spent years trying
to re-create him but until now it hasn't worked out.
In the meantime, I set up a small beauty business. I can't
stay still for long. I don't want to be beholden to Dan for
money either. I believe in having financial independence.
And if I want something, I like to think I can get it for myself
and not have to rely on handouts from someone else. That's
the legacy of being the kid in the middle in a big family.
So, Dan and Kitty. What is there to say, really? They're
in love, I suppose, but I know he loves me too, very, very'
much. I raged like a wild thing when I finally realised what
was going on but always stopped short of confrontation. I'm
not sure why that is. Maybe it's that we three have been
together so long that it was kind of inappropriate to talk
about what the other two were up to. I can't really explain
it. And I suppose I always thought it would peter out. I quit
wifely duties, from time to time, if that's the way to put it.
but it was pointless because, hey, he was getting his oats
elsewhere so its not like it was total punishment for him.
And they have been so discreet all along. God, listen to me,
practically condoning this unforgivable thing.
But I must have some forgiveness in me because I take
my husband home every night.
The little things have hurt the most. The laughs they share
at work that I will never hear about. Those bloody vegetable
patches they've got. I have seen all of the things he's brought
her back over the years from breaks and holidays we took.
I'm not sure if he has actually done a 'wish you were here'
postcard but I imagine he has, and meant it too, maybe.
That's very hard for me to endure and it's best not to dwell
on it. I want my marriage to work now. I'm fighting hard
for it and I won't take no for an answer. Failure is not an
option, as the Americans say.
Once, after a lovely weekend in a B&B in Devon, he
brought back two oak saplings. I know where they both are:
one is out in our back garden, in its own decorative pot, and
the other is in Kitty's He must really think I'm thick if he
imagines I wouldn't notice that. I can only thank the Lord
above they are not in matching frigging pots. I asked him
one winter, for a joke, if ours was dead. He looked at me
like I was the most stupid person ever to tread shoe leather.
I wanted to scream at him, 'I did biology too. I know it's a
fucking deciduous tree.' I didn't. I was too disappointed in
his opinion of me, so I let it slide.
Like a lot of things.
I got a tattoo. 'Donna loves Dan', it says. I deliberately
wanted it that way round. It felt like inking his guilt on to
my skin. I don't know what he really thinks of it, this self
branding, but I mean it and I don't care who sees it. I'm
always ready to show it off.
Why have I put up with it all? Simple. I love him. I am
devoted to him and always have been. Sometimes it hurts
me to look at him and feel so strongly about him. There are
times when I can't blame Kitty for being mad about him
too; it makes perfect sense. But he is mine and I have officially
had enough. It's no joke being the Other Woman in
your own marriage. Laughable, yes. Bewildering. Awful.
She'll have to back off now. We have to be given a proper
chance to be a family. Did I mention I'm pregnant? I won't
lose this baby through my own unhappiness. I want it to know that it is loved, respected: all the things I want for
myself, really.
I sent her my broken birthday gift. Parting with the pieces
after all these years was symbolic for me, a letting go. I know she'll get the message.
Her dad has died and I've never seen her look more beautiful. Grief suits Kitty. She had this otherworldly glow
at the funeral. I think I must have been staring at her because
the new librarian gave me some funny looks. I felt like
vomiting my morning sickness all over him then and shouting,
You haven't a clue, but he looked like he was putting a lot
of things together that day and it wasn't making him too
happy. I should have welcomed him to the club. The mum
was out of it, of course, away with her dementia. Kitty's plate
is full. But so is mine. I am making a fresh start and she'll
have to as well. Without me. Without Dan.
TWELVE

I need time to think. So much has happened, I have staggered
through one event and on to the next without any
real consideration for what each one means. I have to take
stock. I will ask Dan for compassionate leave and spend a
fortnight weighing up my options. This is what I decide in
my three precious minutes before reality hits me. I get out
of bed and immediately begin to backtrack. I decide to
work out the week, on the grounds that I have organised
Mum's routine till then and don't want to upset her by
changing it at short notice. Chances are she'd be oblivious, but she has been more distracted and upset since Dad died
and I don't want to make it worse. We'll all suffer even
more if I do, not just her. So I'll stick to my original plan for the rest of the week. Then I wonder if it's merely
cowardice prompting me and I am simply putting off
inevitable changes. But I am too tired to go into that. I will stay at the station till Friday evening then take a step back
to consider my options. Ding-ding, time up, on into the
day.
Mum appears to be hiding behind the sofa when I go
downstairs.
'There are people here,' she tells me.
'Really?' There shouldn't be. We may operate an open
door policy, in general, but this is the earliest we've had
visitors by a long shot. 'Where are they?' I ask.
'There,' she whispers loudly, indicating the fireplace, then
makes a gesture to me to shush in case they hear us.
I don't see any intruders, friend or foe. 'They've gone
now,' I say and make for the kitchen. I am in need of a
bracing cup of tea.
'One of them is back!' she shrieks.
I return to see her hiding again. Still no invader to be
seen. Still no evidence of anyone. 'Where?' I ask.
She points to the fireplace again, though higher, and I
realise what has happened. We have a large mirror hanging
there which gives a bit of extra depth to the room. It
would appear to be multiplying the number of people
within it now, too. I stand in front of it, point, and say,
'It's a mirror, Mum. It shows us to ourselves. That's me
there.' She peeks out from behind the sofa, still unconvinced.
Gradually she edges round the side and considers
my reflection.
'She looks like you,' she says, which is a good start.
'Come stand beside me,' I urge, and slowly she does, her
eyes downcast. When she raises them, she shrieks again and
dives away.
'Mum, its a mirror. We are meant to be in there.' I hope
I have put it in language she can fathom. 'Come back and I'll
show you.'
She approaches again, gingerly, and I point at our reflections.
'There we are,' I say. 'There's me, and there's you.'
That's not me,' she says, genuinely aghast. 'That's me.'
She points at a photograph taken many decades ago of a
fresh-faced girl sitting in a garden. She doesn't recognise the
old lady in the mirror. Nor does she seem bothered by the
fact that the May she recognises in the photo is in black and
white.

Kitty followed her breath all the way to the allotment. She
maintained a brisk pace, as exercise was the one sure salve
for her grief. She always felt better after a good stretch of
the legs. She breathed deeply, the icy cold slicing through
her throat and lungs. It felt cleansing and good. She checked
the plot over for form's sake, not expecting to find much
as the earth continued its winter break. She had a great
desire to dig a big trench but resisted it when her thoughts
drifted to the idea that this was akin to digging a grave.
She needed to think, not bury herself, as attractive as the
latter notion was. The air cleared her head and left a
blankish canvas ready for tainting with plans-in-progress.
Work was the nub of the latest dilemma. If she took on
the proper running of the publishers, she would have to give
up the station. Her father's letter was in her pocket and,
without needing to read it again, she recalled his phrase 'you
have given enough of your life to it'. He knew, she thought.
Everyone seemed to know about her and Dan. She was so
battered by the vagaries of the last weeks, months and
years that she couldn't even feel mortified that her life
was an open secret. She wondered if Dan realised their
hidden closeness was probably common, but unmentioned,
knowledge.
The allotment was redolent of their alternative universe.
She was suddenly torn between the urgent desire to see him,
to touch him, but also to run from the place in case he
appeared. She would have to face him at work but that was
different. The station was a carefully managed environment
where both of them were restrained. They seldom touched
intimately there. This stretch of allotments marked the
boundaries of their romance and abandon. It was hardly the
ice palace of Dr Zhivago. Still, they had loved and been
happy here in their shadow world.
Dan would hold her in his arms and whisper, 'I love this.
It's just you and me, and no one else need ever know.'

I am standing in a field in an area hardly anyone has heard
of, wondering if I am a laughing stock to the whole town.
Shame burns in my cheeks. What Dan and I did was wrong.
I have always known that deep down. But somehow,
because I was so in love, I rose above any troubling feelings
of guilt and let the wrong continue. I convinced myself
I had no option, that love was the only path I could follow.
I wonder if love isn't the laziest excuse in the world for
being weak? And the handiest. It was unworthy behaviour
by any standard. I cannot shake off the grubby taint of
dishonour.
I now know there was no alternative code of loyalty in
this special place of ours. I have been faithful to Dan but
he has not been to me. He couldn't have been, I know, and
it was unfair and stupid of me to expect that he would be.
I chose to ignore the inconvenient truth. It was easy for me
to be for him alone because I am alone. He did not have that luxury, if luxury is the proper way of putting it. And, to
be fair, he never promised to love me alone. In fact, he never
promised me anything at all.
Donna is right to hate me. I hate myself for what I have
done. I've been such a hypocrite, too, with my years of naively
contemplating the way our friendship changed. I made that
happen. I stole away her man and helped create a parallel
life that made a mockery of their marriage. It's no wonder she cannot abide me.
I look at the allotments with new eyes, shaken to think this sacred place might become impossible for me to be in from now on. No, I can't let that happen. This is my haven,
no matter what. It stands for more than Dan and me in my life. I could not bear to be without it. We all live with the
sadness a loved place can bring, the memories it evokes and
the disappointment felt there. I will have to adapt to this
plot's new, leaner purpose, that's all. I hurry away, unable to
deal with any further shifts of perspective. If I let regret take
hold, it will devour me like a cancer.
Roly is hungry and vocal about it when I arrive at the
office.
'Oh, hush,' I tell him.
He leaps on to the desk and head-butts me a couple of
times. There are mucky paw prints all over my jotter when
he descends to demolish his breakfast. I wipe down the mess
without a murmur. Clearly I relish abuse.

Simon went over the items on his desk then checked them
twice more. When he was fully satisfied that he was ready
for all questions and eventualities concerning the boat, he
called Kitty. He found the hand that was holding the phone
trembled as he spoke to her. He was no better than a teenager
with a crush.
'Why don't you come to the house after work?' she
suggested. 'I'll heat up a lasagne and we can take it from
there. I have to be on duty for Mum anyhow so I'm confined
to barracks.'
He was delighted with the notion but tried to conceal that
by his tone of voice because he felt he had made enough of
a tit of himself as it was.
'You should bring Mona Fletcher too, you know. She's the
leading light of the local Historical Society and I'm sure
she'd love to be involved.'
Simon's heart crunched into a tight ball as his hope of a
sneaky date was blown out of the water.
'Of course,' he managed. 'Good thinking.'
He hung up, swearing at his own stupidity and Kitty's
gracious inclusiveness.
'A person can be too nice,' he said aloud. 'And I don't
mean that in a good way'
He knew if he hesitated he wouldn't ask Mona along and
would then have to lie to Kitty so he left his office immediately
and located Mona in the gardening section, having
a snooze. She was happy to accept their kind invitation. Was
there a meaningful glint in her eye?
'Aren't you the sly one,' was all she said.

The newspaper tells me that celery is the new superfood to
safeguard mental health. The thought of eating it in winter,
particularly raw, actually makes me feel hungry and cold.
There is a tortured pun about a worker looking for Celery
Benefits, which actually makes me groan aloud. Hooray for
celery, though, as it joins camomile and green peppers which
contain similar helpful chemicals. This celery theory is based
on experiments involving mice that have been genetically
modified to develop Alzheimer's. I am in a quandary about that. I really don't believe in experimenting on animals, yet
I Want us to find a cure. I don't want other families to have
to go through the hell we are. And the government wants to
avoid further big bills: that should mean something gets done.
Economics are a potent carrot, a vegetable that is probably
another cure waiting to happen. It currently costs about
seventeen billion pounds a year to care for dementia sufferers.
I have to remove Roly forcibly from the tartan blanket
when its owner arrives. The man regards the cat hair, sniffs
the cloth and looks sour. I half hope his head doubles in size
from an allergic reaction, he's being so mean about my boy,
however silently he's doing it. I decide to retaliate by printing
off a form I keep on the computer for people I don't like
to fill in and sign. I sweetly hand the man a pen and tell
him, effectively, to get with the programme. Roly curls up
on my empty warm chair while this is happening. He keeps
his eyes on the action as he loves to see me waste nasty
people's time.
Dan appears, long faced again, and it grates on my nerves.
He may be sad we've parted but he is having a baby with
the woman he loves and chose to marry, and both of his
parents are still alive. By my reckoning that's a good innings.
If he is adopting the sad expression for my benefit, he's
wasting his time. The longing I felt for him at the allotment
has mysteriously evaporated. The thought of him touching
me now actively sends a shiver through me. I didn't know I
had it in me to turn against Dan like this. I'm being unfair,
I tell myself. I am venting everything on him because he is
the person closest to me.
What's up?' I ask, trying to sound casual.
'I miss you.'
'There's not a lot we can do about that.'
'I wish I could help you more. I should be here for you
now.'
'Beware of sounding like a pop song,' I warn. It's unkind
and I feel I should let him off the hook. This man is clearly
suffering too. 'You have a lot to deal with yourself,' I concede.
'How did it go with the lawyer yesterday?'
'Fine. Dad left me the business.'
Dan looks utterly deflated to hear this.
'Would it be possible for me to take two weeks' compassionate
leave, to have a think and sort a few things out?'
I ask.
'Of course.'
I feel I am already halfway out the door.

Dan wondered how his voice could sound so steady? He
marvelled that he'd got those two words 'of course' out
without roaring them above the sounds of his whole world
shattering into even smaller pieces. Careful with the pop
song sentiments again, he told himself. Kitty was right: he
was trite. He knew immediately that she would take up this
escape route she had been offered. She would be a fool not
to, and her father had counted on her common sense winning
out. Dan wouldn't stand in her way. She deserved this chance.
But that wasn't the worst of it. This time she was leaving
him behind too and his sense of loss was so profound that
Dan began to cry. Kitty did not move to comfort him. He
had ensured that she could not when he had told her his
news and ruined everything between them. You ruined it a
long time before that, a voice inside him said. He wanted
to throw himself under the next through train but knew by
now he didn't have the courage for such decisive action.

In the past I'd often asked Mum, 'Why Pennick?' to which
she would answer, "Why not?' if she didn't want to talk
about it, or else give a sigh before launching into yet
another explanation. As it happened, it was a bit of an accident.
'Darling,
your father and I love one another dearly but
we cannot live together. We did try but it was a disaster.'
This was usually how the explanation began, the reassurance
that all was fundamentally well in the world but human
beings, flawed as we are, sometimes have to make do.
Nothing much to worry about.
'I began to look for somewhere to rent and I don't know
why but I didn't want to live in Norwich, as beautiful as it
is. I wanted a bit of countryside round me, I suppose, with
the benefits of a small town thrown in. On a drive one Sunday
we stopped in Pennick and I thought it was quaint, the way
people do until they get to know it properly'
She never meant this in a cruel way. Pennick is so laid
back about itself it's hard to imagine any concerted plan to
make it attractive to strangers coming together. It is what it
is, and that seemed to have appealed to my mother.
I rented a place for us both here and liked the way everybody
accepted us without making a big deal of it. At the
time that also seemed important to me. You loved it. We
seemed to fit in here without too many problems. I could
work from home, refrain from murdering your dad yet still
nip into Norwich if I needed to. Stephen was only a train
hop or a drive away for visiting you. We never left.'
I think the bland, humdrum nature of life in Pennick
came as something of a relief to her. As a young girl, she
couldn't wait to leave her home in Ireland. She loved her
mother and sister but felt suffocated living at close quarters
with them.
'There was an elemental misery in our household. We
seemed to live permanently under a shadow, with my father
taking off and the boys dying. I thought it would drag me
under too so I had to get out. I miss it, in the way we all
do the notion of home and heritage, but it would have killed
me to stay. It would have sucked me dry.'
I had met my maternal grandmother and knew that she
was a woman who would always pull you down. I don't know
if she realised that she was crushing the life out of others,
but it's more than likely she did. She disapproved of my
mother bettering herself, 'having notions' she called it, which
was rich given that she herself had insisted on having a job when she was a young mother. She stifled any striving for
success in others, especially her own family, and, from what
I can gather, mocked aspiration as a means to ending it.
There was a sort of jealousy at work within her that couldn't
bear to see others do well or have any luck.
After Ellen died, I think any good Mum saw in Ireland
faded completely. Of course, then there was no one else but
her mother to visit and she went back only on short, duty
holidays to see her. She would often swear she didn't miss
the place at all, but her eyes would sometimes tear up to
see travel programmes about it or to hear sad news on a
bulletin. Now, with the disease, she will probably never visit
Ireland again. It has been taken from her twice.
I used to wonder if we were a household of single women
because of my grandfather running off. It seemed harsh,
though, to heap blame on him, he being all but a stranger to
me, and it's not as if I grew up without a dad. Perhaps there's
simply a trait running through us Fulton women that makes
us pick unsuitable men. Or unavailable ones at any rate.

'Sly one,' May repeated after Mona.
Simon felt horribly uncomfortable.
'Never told me what he was working on,' the ex-librarian
continued.
'It was theoretical until now,' he protested.
Kitty laughed. 'Don't let her get to you. We are all just
overexcited to have a real, live man to ourselves the whole
evening, to torture as we please. Isn't that right, Mona?'
'Oh, yes. We haven't had this much fun since we set fire
to the Mayoral robes two years ago.'
'She made that up,' Kitty told Simon. 'I think.'
They cleared the table and he laid out his findings. This
is my heart stripped bare before her he thought, then struggled
after that line of Yeats about treading on his dreams
. . . and told himself not to be a soppy idiot.
'History is an affecting subject,' Mona assured him. 'It's
okay to be soppy about it as long as your research is scholarly
and substantiated.'
Good grief, he was speaking his thoughts aloud now too.
Simon cleared his throat and began his presentation.
'As I have mentioned to Kitty before, Pennick was used,
briefly, as a Parole Town for captured French soldiers during
the Napoleonic Wars in the early nineteenth century. The
town was host to officers, for the main part, as they were
deemed the most naturally honourable and it was assumed
they could be relied on to observe the curfews imposed.
These men were popular with the higher levels of Pennick
society as they were educated, cultured, and could usually
speak some English. In fact, many were treated more as
guests than prisoners. Throughout the country, for instance,
captured doctors and surgeons were allowed set up practice
and a few were repatriated for their good deeds while on
British soil. Inevitably, some soldiers fell for local ladies and
even married into the area. When Pennick was decommissioned
as a Parole Town, after one too many escapes, the
prisoners were moved on. Some eventually made it home
to France, some died here, and some returned to the war
and were killed.
'One of the sidelines they had, to make some extra cash,
was to fashion small objets for sale, using bone or sometimes
fabric. These were also made as mementoes for sweethearts.'
He dared look straight at Kitty then. 'The pieces are quite
rare and much prized now. Plymouth City Museum has some
very fine, very intricate examples made of bone, and there
is a truly remarkable working model of a Spinning Jenny in
a French museum, measuring just four and a half inches. I
took the liberty of making some photocopies of those for
you.'
He handed these to his rapt audience and gulped down
a mouthful of ice-cold Pinot Grigio. He picked the ship up
and held it out for the three ladies to see.
'I think that is what we have here. I am certain this boat
is made of bone and believe it was crafted by a French prisoner
on parole in Pennick. It is so rare I cannot find mention
of another piece like it anywhere in the archives, and I'm
sure it is very valuable.'
'Basis?' Mona barked, ever rigorous.
She was correct to question this bold statement of his,
but Simon was ready for her.
'When Kitty and I cleaned the boat,' he said, delighted
with the way that sounded and the closeness it hinted at,
'we discovered some initials on it. I have been investigating
those further. They were FVAC, as far as we could make out.' He looked over to Kitty who nodded, enthralled. 'I now believe they are in fact two sets of initials rather than one: FV and AC. Extant records of the French officers held here are rare, as far as I can tell so far. Some turn up in legal documents because they spent time in the town jail for various minor offences. Incidentally, I visited the cell in the basement of the Town Hall and I am happy to report that there is some splendid graffiti still visible on the walls. One barely legible piece is in French. I hope to be able to have that restored, if the powers that be permit. It has been
whitewashed over a number of times but not obliterated.'
'How exciting,' Kitty told him.
'Yes. It is ... very. I'm glad you agree. I'm not suggesting it has any connection with your find, that would be too much
of a coincidence, but it could be from the same time.'
'Or not,' Mona warned.
'Or not, of course,' he agreed hastily. It doesn't pertain totally or directly to our quest, at any rate.' He gulped some more wine. 'I have checked various rosters kept at some of the local big houses where work details of the French were
employed. And the Constabulary kept lists of men who had to report to them each day while they were stationed here so
I have put in a request to see those. A few of the merchant
families also kept records which I have just drawn up from the archives. I may need help trawling those or this will all take much longer than I can stand because I really want to
know as much about these people as I can find out. I know
the work of a historian is painstakingly slow but I haven't been
this revved up in years.'
'Do you have any clues about FV and AC yet?' Kitty asked.
Mona looked incredibly stern now so Simon tried to keep
his voice as non-committal as he could. 'Well, I think I may
know who FV is . . .' He paused, enjoying the thrall in which
he held his small audience. He relished the moment. He
had worked hard for it. 'In 1805 a Francois Villeneuve was
sent to Pennick. His name is the only one matching one set
of the initials.'
'So far,' Mona interjected. 'So far. It is a big assumption
that those are the French initials. Perhaps AC was the French
personage. Or perhaps they were both French.'
Mona was right. He had been so intent on impressing
Kitty that he had let enthusiasm run away with him. It was
hardly scholarly.
'That's true,' he admitted.
Mona was relentless. 'You want this piece to turn out to
be a romantic gift, it seems to me. Well, you have a lot more
work to put in before you can claim that.'
Simon took his ticking off meekly. He deserved it.

I really enjoy the evening. Simon and Mona are great to be
with. She gives him a hard time, but only to keep him up
to the mark. I think he was a bit embarrassed by her criticism
but I feel sure it will spur him on. It has been a welcome
escape to lose myself in good company and such fascinating
discoveries. Mum too is diverted, if confused, by the history
lesson. I send her to bed hoping she will have pleasant and
romantic dreams based on what she heard tonight, and not
of soldiers shooting at one another or Napoleon terrorising
her. I don't want her to be 'frykened', as she puts it.
I tidy up and discover that Mum has been busy earlier.
She has run the dishwasher full of woollens. Most are fine.
However, one sweater has hated the experience and will only
fit a nine year old from now on. When it is dry, I'll leave it
into the charity shop and hope they don't display it in the
window. I can picture Mum raging in and demanding her
jumper back. She'll probably remember it better than she
does me by now, such is the cruel nature of her condition.
My own comfort-cardi is among the damp items but it
has escaped harm. It has been through so much I think it
may be invincible. I'll need it tomorrow for my last day at
the station. I drape it over a radiator and snuggle up in bed,
listening to the wind build into a gale around the house. We
have made it through another day.
THIRTEEN

Mum is blocking up the taps and plughole in the bathroom
when I try to get in for a wee. She is crouched down below
the cabinet over the sink in case her reflection sees her. She
doesn't recognise herself up here either.
'We have to keep them out,' she tells me in a low voice.
There is no way of convincing her that these people are
us, or that they don't exist, when she can see them every
day in here and over the fireplace. The mirrors will have
to go.
'I'll talk to them,' I say and buy some time.
She scurries into her room to dress. From the landing I
see her hand mirror is face down on the floor under the
bed. The proper place for a personal bogeyman. I take it
with me, telling her it's broken, but she doesn't care about
it or even realise what I have done as she's busy learning an
orange blouse with a red pullover. Those top designers who
encouraged us to wear clashing colours recently should have
her as their muse. I call Mum when breakfast is ready and
watch as she comes down the stairs sideways, one step at a
time, both feet meeting on the same tread before she moves
on. She looks like a much older person. I cannot tell whether
she is being careful or has forgotten how to do this small
everyday journey the conventional way.
Hannah will watch Mum until it's time for her to go
swimming with the support group. Our neighbour helps
me lift the big mirror off the wall downstairs and we put
it away in the garden shed. Next to be moved is the bathroom
cabinet. Afterwards I take Mum to see the blank
spaces.
'I asked them to leave,' I tell her. 'They've gone now.'
She seems content with that. She touches the wall above
the fireplace and then checks the alcoves to both sides, to
be sure the strangers are not hiding there. We watch her go
upstairs to look over the bathroom again.
'I miss May,' Hannah says.
The too.'
It's the other lass in her place now. Even though she
looks and sounds just like May, she's different, isn't she? It's
odd to see my old friend and hear her voice but not recognise
what she's saying or the ideas she's having.' Hannah
sighs. 'What's to become of us all?' she asks of no one in
particular.
'We couldn't manage without you.'
'You'd do the same for me.'
Would I, though? Am I that generous? Maybe we don't
know ourselves well enough to say until we are called upon.
And we probably shouldn't wait till then, if we're any good
at all.
'Today is my last at the station,' I tell her. It sounds ominous
when I put it like that. 'For a while, at least,' I add, to take
some of the edge off it. I pull my special cardigan tight about
me. It smells clean and comforting.
Mum comes back and says, 'Napoleon was here last night.'
I see Hannah's perplexed expression but I don't have time
to explain.
'He had a boat,' Mum goes on.
I am amazed. 'Long story,' I say to Hannah as she suppresses
a smile. Unfairly, I'm leaving Mum looking as though she's off
on one. 'He sort of was here, actually, with a boat.'
Hannah holds her hands up to ward off any more unlikely
information. 'You can fill me in later.' She clearly thinks we're
both unhinged.
'He was a lot taller than I expected,' Mum is telling her
as I leave the house.

Simon had a new sense of purpose in his step. He all but
skipped through the marble entrance of the Town Hall and
had to stop himself from whistling. He saluted some lawyers
he recognised and took the stairs two at a time. He greeted
the library staff with extra cheer and could feel their scrutiny
on his back as he tripped along the corridor to his office.
'Lovely day,' he declared to anyone who cared to listen.
It was not. Wind and rain were mauling Pennick like a bear
with a grudge.
He snagged a quick instant coffee and set about his acquisitions
forms, determined to clear his desk of the dross he
had allowed to gather and setting lunchtime as his cutoff
point. He found it difficult to concentrate, wanting to delve
more deeply into his private research yet not neglect his job.
He would have loved some downtime to devote himself to
the boat project but was new here and couldn't just bunk
off because it suited him, even if he was the boss.
He had a hot date with a parish register later, and over lunch
would look at some printouts pertaining to the nineteenth
century parole prisoners.
'Pennick's Parole Prisoners,' he said aloud, then repeated
it quickly a number of times in the manner of a tongue
twister. He added some extra words and finally had 'Problems
Pertaining to Pennick's Parole Prisoners' to contend with, juicy and a challenge. 'And the tongue-twister's not bad
either,' he said aloud to make himself laugh. He was an idiot,
he decided, no two ways about it.
Life was good. Life was exciting. Kitty Fulton was in the
world. As the song went, 'Who could ask for anything more?'
He sent off a request for information to the National
Archives and emailed Mona to ask her to look up the local
Genealogical Society's records. He wasn't sure if they were
on-line yet. There were military records at Kew, too, which
might cover the time they were interested in. 'Kew, too,' he
repeated, and made himself chuckle again.

It wasn't much by way of a last day, if it was to be truly that
at all. Passengers came and went. Kitty helped the oldsters
who hated using the ticket machine. She warned off a few
teenagers who were likely up to no good. They called back
that she was a slag. No argument there. She fed Roly and
patted his head when he demanded it. He was hard to shift
from her lap. She took in a bag of shopping left by the coffee
dispenser; no perishables so it was plonked straight on a
shelf. Dan brought her a bar of chocolate. She wanted to
cry. All in all, a regular day's work at Pennick railway station.
She needed to keep it that way. If this was a momentous
occasion she wanted to realise it purely in retrospect.
Otherwise she might not get through it.
The wind rattled the windows and the rain was so heavy
she could hear it bounce off the ground. It was a symphonic
accompaniment to this new phase of her life. The concourse
was littered with umbrellas blown inside out and abandoned,
their spindly, broken struts set at painful, strange angles. She
found herself being remarkably gentle as she picked them
up and binned them. Dan walked the platforms advising
people to stand well back in case they slipped in front of an
incoming train. He terrified all but the most foolish.
At 15, The Cottages, Hannah passed the baton to Val
when the swimming trip was over. He telephoned Kitty to
say that May was complaining about sharing the pool with
'spastics' and he couldn't guarantee she'd stop using the word.
She'd also put her dry clothes on over her wet swimsuit and
no one had noticed. She was now in a new outfit and didn't see what the fuss was about. He confirmed there'd be a visit
by a Healthcare Visitor next week to assess their request for
more full-time care.
'If she's anything like this during the inspection, you are
going to get all they can give,' he promised. 'Oh, by the way,
she asked me if her father was dead. I said yes, and she was
upset and wanted to know why it had been kept from her.
She fell asleep crying, though it was forgotten about by the
time she woke up.'
Before he rang off Kitty heard May in the background
saving, 'Gracias'. Val explained she was picking up a bit of
Spanish from Dora the Explorer, one of her favourite television
programmes.
'Great,' Kitty said. 'She can't remember me most of the
time but she's learning a new language.'
Val chuckled. 'The mind is a different country, as someone
ought to have said.'

I have a vision of a holiday we took once. I don't know
exactly where it was but Mum, Dad and I were on a boat
in the middle of a lake. Mum trailed her hand in the water
and soaked up the sun with a lazy smile on her face, like
in a movie. I remember her looking at Dad with what
I now know to be desire and love. It gave me a warm
feeling. She stood up and dived into the water, making the
boat rock and splashing water over us. When she surfaced
many yards away she was laughing. Almost without reason,
I thought at the time. I know now it was the sound of pure
joy because of the place and the day and because we were
all there together. She swam back through the glistering
water, her strokes making regular and beautiful patterns
on the surface. She reached the boat looking ecstatic. 'Look
at me,' she'd said. 'I am so lucky.' She might as well have
said, I love you.
The memory pierces me, hard and to the quick. The
wonder is that I do not fall to the ground and cry out. I am
so disappointed that I don't. Being constantly worn out lacks
passion or rage. I feel I am betraying her with my apparent
calm, as if I have given in to the unacceptable. I must seem
like such a cold fish.
The shakes start again. Who am I kidding? I can't take
on running a business I know nothing about, or any business
for that matter. What am I but a glorified receptionist
who knows her way around a wages spreadsheet? I calculate
simple sums and present them plausibly with the aid
of a computer program. I can issue a few tickets to people
with simple demands. I have a ridiculously intricate knowledge
of minor rail routes in a forgotten backwater of
Norfolk, a specialised subject if ever there was one. This
is my comfort zone. I've got this one sussed. Here, I can
triumph. I cannot attempt to bring new works, pieces of
art for heaven's sake, to a wider public.
I have to put my pen down before it stabs something as
my hand continues to shake. I hear my fathers calming
voice. He says he wouldn't have asked me to do this if he
didn't think I had something to give to it. That's not 'offer',
he stresses, it's 'give'. You will bring a fresh eye and enthusiasm
to the company. I rest my hands flat on the desk to
still them. How will I do it without Dad? I will be there
every step of the way, he says. I remember his letter said
there were projects and publications underway. That will
give me breathing space. I will try my best. It is all I can
promise him. That will do, he says. I wonder if he will always
be here to calm and support me. To be strictly accurate
about it, I am hearing voices in my head. Which is not great.
But I'll take it.
This will be an adventure, like the stuff of my bedtime
stories. Another reason why Donna hates me, I'd say. I was
read to every night of pirates and fairies, of derring-do and
caves full of treasure, of magical lands and the creatures that
inhabited them. All she could look forward to was a fight
about her lowly status. As a younger member of her family,
she was no one. In my house I was everyone. And when she did finally get anything of her own, I was on hand to destroy
it or take it away. Dan's bar of chocolate does not taste so
sweet now, more like a sour forbidden apple.
When the time comes to clock off I try to be as casual
about it as possible. I may be back to do it again and again
for years, I reason, it's no big deal. I know secretly that this
is disingenuous but it helps me along. I am terrified that
Dan will appear and suggest a parting glass in the Railway
Inn. The leavetakings are piling up. I cannot face the end
of so many eras. Dad is dead, Mum is fading away. When I
go out of that door, if I am finishing my time serving the
travellers of Pennick, I am also truly ending my journey with
Dan. I have no reason to see him any more once I leave this
job. I need to ignore these thoughts as I am winding myself
up into a useless hysteria. I have been through other tough times because of my love for this man and I have survived.
I will get through this too. The longing for him is again
visceral and crippling but I will have to endure it. I remind
myself that this isn't formally the end, as I have not packed
the traditional cardboard box of belongings that I see in all
the television shows. That should get me out the door with
some sort of dignity.
I look at my Lost and Found section and wonder what
its future will be without me. I know why I do it. For separate,
compelling reasons I cannot have my parents back, but
I can at least help a few lost things get home.

Mona had been busy and had a little something she knew
Simon would be interested in, or so went the telephone call.
She arrived in his office nearly as soon as he put the receiver
down.
'I may have found our AC,' she said.
Simon braced himself for another lash of the fact that
presumption was poor scholarship.
'Sock it to me,' he said, -without enthusiasm.
'Oh, stop that,' she told him. 'Kitty need never know.' She
smiled and consulted her notes. 'One of the richer merchant
families in the area had a mansion a few miles out of town.
Very ugly building, it has to be said, and typical of the
nouveau riche sensibility. Each generation added "improvements"
in the style of their era. I have some photographs.'
She was correct: it was a hideous structure without any
architectural coherence. Simon felt sure Mona was going to
back up everything she said at this session with documentation,
to drive home the need for scrupulous accuracy in
matters historical. The photos were just a start. They both
shuddered at the images of the overblown house.
'Clearly more money than taste,' Simon said.
'Or sense,' Mona added. 'The family intermarried a lot,
thinking themselves above the very community they had
grown out of, and they died off without anyone mourning
them too much. The house was razed after the Second World
War to make way for an equally ugly housing estate. The
family records came to the Historical Society for safekeeping
and have languished in unopened boxes for years.' She looked
up and let him off the hook. 'You couldn't have known about
them. Most members have forgotten about their existence,
if they ever knew at all.'
'I'm assuming you found a parole prisoner?' 'Yes, I did. I found Antoine Chaubert. He might be our AC
Simon must have looked crestfallen: he certainly felt it.
The light at the end of the tunnel was fading away as more
tunnel was added to the search.
'We need to look for a local with the initials FV in case
that is an English half of the couple,' Mona continued. 'It
could still comprise two French citizens, or one Brit and one
Frenchie, of whatever initials. We have many permutations
to consider and explore.' She caught Simon's expression. 'This
is all to the good,' she said. 'Now we have real possibilities.
We're not stuck with just one scenario.'
He grunted, knowing she was right.
'Further opportunity to impress,' Mona added, without
looking up from her notes. 'Further opportunity to get extra
help on board. Shall we call Kitty and ask if she'd like to go
through some of the papers you mentioned you had?'

I am about to bin the latest edition of the Pennick Post when
I see a story I had avoided reading first time out. It is the
report of a car crash in which a mother and baby daughter
were killed. The photograph is of the infant on the day she
was christened, swaddled in her white robe with nothing to
fear and everything to look forward to, so much to learn and
do. Two generations wiped out, one before she even had the
chance to know much at all. I think of the decades I have
had with Mum, and my gratitude for that and sadness for
the baby girl set me to crying again, great hopeless sobs that
can never purge the cruel ecstasy of life and all it brings
with it. I have been so fortunate. I have loved, been loved,
and will continue to be, somehow, in the future. I have to
believe that or I will never move another inch. I know why
I skirted over the story initially: I have realised there is only
so much tragedy I can take in a day. I am grieving for so
much.
I sell a ticket to Richard Marlin, a chap I have known for
years. He doesn't look surprised to see mascara streaked
across my cheeks.
'Oh, Kitty,' he says, 'it will get better, I promise.'
I blub agreement; don't know why, because right now I
know it will never get better. My heart has simply given up
on that idea.
'Would you like a hug?' he asks through the window hatch.
'Your train is arriving at platform three,' I sob. 'Run.'
He starts into a lolloping canter, turns and yells, 'The
ticket machine is bust.'
'So am I,' I shout, though I have no way of knowing if he
has heard me. Is anyone listening any more? I wonder.
I put the newspaper in the bin, feeling like a betrayer of the
woman and daughter who have died, as if I have thrust them
out of sight and therefore out of mind. Dan used to call the
paper the Pennick Pravda, giving it an ironic majesty and us a sneak. I laugh. Everything about me is so bound up with him,
I wonder if I have ever had a truly independent thought of my
own in the years we have known and loved one another. In
many ways I don't care if I have not. It has almost been worth
it. Almost.

Kitty followed May through the supermarket allowing her to
pile the trolley high, returning the superfluous items as they
did their second sweep. They stopped at the refrigerated section
and talked about cheese and yogurts, sausages and bacon.
'This one's hickory flavoured,' Kitty said. 'How about that?'
May looked doubtful. 'As in dickorydock?'
'I suppose.'
'No. I won't eat a mouse.'
'I don't think it's made of mouse.'
'It might be, with a name like that. I won't take the chance.
No, thank you.'
Kitty made a play of reading the label and confirming,
'It's not mouse.'
Her mother was adamant but not upset. 'I don't want it.'
Kitty was about to declare it was made of pig but thought
better of it. If it was a day when pigs were high on May's
love list they could be in for a scene. For some obscure
reason, she remembered an advert from ages ago about a
'juice loose aboot this hoose' and couldn't shake the demented
jingle from her mind.
As they got in their front door, with 'ooh' sounds still
ringing in her head, Kitty said, 'I'm pooped.' It made May
laugh and she repeated the word 'poop' many times over,
shaking her head at the hilarity of it. If I could have made
Dan laugh like that would he have been mine entirely, Kitty
wondered. She had been a morose teenager, she reckoned
and looking back, Donna seemed always to be smiling then
and, therefore, doubly beautiful.
Simon Hill arrived, apologising for another intrusion. Kitty
was glad to be taken out of herself and told him so. She
thought she saw his chest puff out at that.
'You may not thank me after you've waded through this
lot.' Simon dropped reams of photocopied documents on
the table in front of her. It shook under their weight.
It's like being a detective,' she said.
He agreed. 'Just like that and, as far as I know, as utterly
dull as surveillance is, but when you unearth a nugget of
information the thrill makes up for all the long hours of
mind-numbing boredom.'
'Sounds kind of pervy,' Kitty said.
Simon Hill laughed. 'And that too.'
This man enjoys what I say, she thought, I make him
smile. The idea seemed startling and almost forbidden.
'I like the cut of his jib,' May announced.
He reddened and Kitty, without allowing herself to think
about it, stretched out and touched his hand.

Mum goes to bed and Simon asks, 'How are you?'
I don't want to point out it is not quite twenty-four hours
since he last saw me, in case this is rude or hurtful. I like
the cut of his jib too, I realise, and that's something I may
have to deal with. My heart gives itself up to a weird flutter
that is not unpleasant. I guess I'm a sucker for even the
tiniest display of concern now.
'I'm fine. A bit drained. It's been a rough time.'
If you ever need to talk . . .' He lets the offer trail away.
'I mean, I know we've only, really, just met and all, but I
might be a good sounding board for you? I don't come with
any baggage.'
What is he trying to tell me here? Does he know more
than I would like him to? Must I always assume Dan is at
the back of everything that is said?
I am heartbroken,' I tell him, and that covers it all. It
feels good to say it out loud.
He nods. This simple, straightforward gesture is somehow
encouraging and I know he won't be bored if I go on, or
regret that he allowed me to.
'This base note of sadness in me won't go away, and I
don't expect it to for a long time. If ever. It's like a cold I
cannot shake off. It seems to have a chemical makeup like
poison. It unbalances me. But I've made it myself, just as
surely as Mum's mind has manufactured her Alzheimer's
with its inappropriate proteins.' I sigh. Though there the
similarities end. It's unlikely I will die of my broken heart.'
Not on my watch,' he says, and smiles so, so kindly.
For the first time in ages I feel safe.
Is this what it's like to have a friend? Simon wondered
because now he did feel that he had one. True, he would
like it to become more than that but for once he seemed to
be going about the process in the right way. Until now it
had been bed em and shed 'em, sometimes that quickly,
sometimes a lingering that suited no one ultimately. He
supposed he'd never got to know any of the women well.
He had been bad at the talking end of things, especially
about himself. He didn't enjoy analysing his personality and
behaviour to show how sensitive he could be. He didn't like
it when a woman did it for him either, despite earnest assurances
that it would help him be a better person. For his
part, he didn't feel he knew enough about people, in general,
to offer advice if someone needed it or, in particular, if they
hadn't asked for it. He was not comfortable with those
scenarios, or with being relied on by anyone but his parents,
and their needs had been increasingly simple: they were old
and needed practical help more than anything, as time
went on.
Now he had someone to talk to and share with. He had
someone to care for. This was a delicate situation. He
had before him a vulnerable other, a woman he would not
risk hurting. It was a long time since he'd made anyone a
promise but he was on the brink of one now. He would take
care of Kitty Fulton. He didn't want to go any further than
that just then. He didn't want to break the moment.
She was pointing out she might be slow getting round to
paperwork. He told her there was no rush. He neglected
to mention that as long as they were communicating daily
he was happy, couldn't give a fig about the research. At the or he leaned down to kiss her cheek, as was now their
habit, and walked out on to the street feeling dangerously

happy
Kitty put the guard before the fire and cleared away the
evening's dishes. She sighed as she realised it had not after
all been the worst of days. She had a new friend, a new job,
new prospects.
May appeared at the top of the stairs and said, 'Ellen's
wet the bed again.'
FOURTEEN

'I am not a baby,' Mum shouts. 'I won't wear a nappy!'
'It's not a nappy,' I tell her, trying desperately to think of
another way to describe the item so as to make it acceptable
to her. 'It's a pad,' I say. 'A just-in-case pad. Everyone
wears them.'
The day is going from bad to belligerent. Mum cannot be
placated. I'm ratty and snappish. More than once I've had to
turn away to keep myself from roaring, or worse. Mum's face
is pinched with crankiness. I suspect mine is too. As usual,
small things have escalated to unexpected crises. We went to
a favourite restaurant as a Sunday treat and Mum wanted to
know why the window was full of fish. Did no one realise
the fish were all going to die if they were kept here? The
tank was large but three-dimensional. I led her around it,
hoping this would show it wasn't actually a window. By then,
Mum had moved on to the idea that the whole world and
everyone in it was dying. Her voice went up a key
'I'm dying too, aren't I, Kitty?"
I had been 'Miss' or 'dear' until then, and to be called by
my name might have made me happier were it not the fact
that it was tagged on to this subject. I was so weary of being
reasonable, actually fed up with it.
'Mum, we are having your favourite Chinese meal. We're
happy,' I said, reining in my annoyance.
'Ellen is dead, so is Daddy.' An eruption of tears could
be expected any moment now. I had a sudden hysterical
urge to remind Mum that her mother also had passed away.
The woman rarely got a mention in despatches at all so why
not have her out there with the rest? My head felt oddly
light and my throat parched.
The blessed distraction of a waiter bearing food saved
us from a further outburst. Sunday, and God be praised.
I was beyond worrying that it was frivolous or wrong to
cherry-pick our religious moments. If it got us through
the day smoothly, I was all for it. I'd pay my dues another
time. I felt so grotty, I half hoped if there were a God,
I'd be first to be called to heavenly bliss. Mum scoffed
her chicken with cashew nuts and fried rice without
another murmur, and entirely forgot about death arid all
who had been taken by it. She brightened up even further
when her favourite dessert arrived: banana fritters and ice
cream.
As we were leaving she pointed at the tank. 'Look at all
the lovely fish,' she squealed. She cast her narrowed eyes
around the restaurant, sizing up the clientele, and said,
'They're not going to eat them, are they?'
'No, those fish are far too pretty for that.'
She stalled at the door and I could not get her over the
threshold.
'We haven't got our takeaway yet,' she pointed out.
Mums voice was quite loud now and several diners gave
us sly glances, as if they knew what was going on. It made
me bridle. As much as I'm allowed to be fed up with Mum,
none of these strangers had any right to sit in judgement. We
are not a freak show to make you all feel better about yourselves,
I wanted to tell them, but the effort wasn't worth it.
My head was aching with stress and the stirrings of a classic
winter cold. It is always the case that if I don't feel good,
our whole day is in jeopardy. Our system is balanced so
precariously there is no margin for error or being less than
one hundred and ten percent committed to whatever a situation
might require. I'd bombarded myself with paracetamol
and the hottest thing on the menu to unblock my bunged
up head but neither had worked. I hadn't even tasted my
food. Now I wanted to lie in bed and be cared for, brought
hot drinks and nibbles, to sleep at will and sweat out this
lurgy. Fat chance of that. Today is a series of arguments with
every last subject up for debate, and reason a casualty each
time. I want to dissolve in a heap but that is a luxury we
cannot afford.
Mum says, 'You're very pale, young lady, maybe you
should get some vitamins. My daughter could tell you which
ones.'
I cannot resist saying, 'She's great, your daughter, isn't
she?'
'Yes,' Mum says, proudly. 'You'll like her. Everyone does.'
At least the notional Kitty is wonderful.
I put soiled sheets into the wash and replace the linen on
Mum's bed. I'm glad now I let Val convince me to get a
rubber cover for the mattress during the funeral week, when
the bed-wetting started. Like an idiot, I had supposed it was
a one-off incident.
'Just be thankful we're not at solids yet,' he'd said, to make
me laugh a little even though it was in horror at the notion.
Mum is stuck into a Lassie movie and thrilled with it. I
praise all responsible for television as it is my little helper.
She told me politely earlier that she's having a lovely
day. She is having trouble concentrating on reading so I
might get some audio books from the library for her. I jot
that on a pad so I won't forget. My head is like marshmallow
and can't be relied on. Everything seems to be on an even
keel now so I make myself a hot toddy and curl up opposite
Mum, in front of the fire with the Sunday papers. I need to
smack this cold right in the kisser if I am to start at my dad's
firm tomorrow. My business now, I remind myself, and am
filled with the strangest, nicest mixture of terror, excitement
and whisky.
I doze off because the next thing I know I hear shouts
of 'Snap' and wake to find Simon playing cards with my
mother. I have lost track of time and it terrifies me. I spring
up and look at the clock, realising I have been out for two
hours. Two whole hours. Anything could have happened.
The house might have burned down. Mum might have
hurt herself. I fell asleep on duty and am appalled at myself.
I find I cannot stay upright. I am dizzy and in a lather of
sweat. It's a nasty sensation. Then I am floating. Simon
rushes over and catches me as I begin to fall.
The next bites of consciousness are woozy and bent out
of shape. Simon is carrying me upstairs and placing me in
my bed. I think he helps me undress but I am raving now
and incapable of figuring out what should or must happen.
The sheets feel nice, then hot and wet. Simon returns from
the bathroom with a cooling flannel and strokes my back
and neck with it and tells me I will be fine. I love him just
then. I ask him if Mum is safe. He tells me not to worry,
that he has everything in hand. I will have to trust him
on that as I am incapable of doing anything for anyone, even
myself. The pattern on my wallpaper is moving about and
making me uneasy. I shut my eyes tight but then my head
spins. I am so tired. The cold flannel is so good. I feel safe
but terrible. I drift off.
I burst awake, shouting 'Dan', though I don't remember
dreaming about him. I am freezing, my teeth chattering and
my body shaking. I cannot speak properly, only in bursts of
nonsense. I don't recognise the words and I don't seem to
be making sentences although I desperately want to say
something coherent. Simon tells me I'm burning up but puts
an extra duvet over me even so. I chatter some more then
warm up again. My body feels heavy. I drift away.
It is 4.15 in the morning before I am able to think straight
but not in any conventional way. I feel so ashamed that I
lost control. I have let everyone down. Simon is asleep in a
chair by my bed, his hand resting by my pillow. It looks so
tender. I try to shift out of the sodden bed without waking
him but cannot. He is suddenly alert.
'Kitty,' he mutters in an odd tone I cannot quite identify.
'How are you feeling?'
'Ravenous.' My voice is hoarse from a dried-out throat.
I am floppy and weak so he helps me out of bed. I am
wearing a truly gross nightgown, a pink flannelette confection
that I meant to throw out ages ago. It does nothing for
me. Not only that, it is probable that Simon was the one
who put me in it. I shouldn't fear for my modesty now, I
know, as I may have none left in this man's eyes. I smell
dreadful, too, all grease and perspiration.
'Let's get you fed,' he says. 'Would Madam like to be carried to the kitchen?'
I laugh weakly and say, 'why not?' because things are going
that way and I don't think I have the strength to walk that
far. I cringe at the state of myself. We muddle down the
stairs, my clammy arms and breath on his neck, my feet
hitting the walls on the narrow stairwell.
'Hardly Gone with the Wind,' he remarks.
'Though it is another day,' I manage.
I hear the laughter in his chest.
It strikes me that Dan never did this with me. There was
never a moment like that. But then, there never could have
been, either.
Simon can cook. He explains it is one of the necessities
when you've been a bachelor as long as he has. This doesn't
quite cover it, I decide, but he is so lovely about it all I
decide to be gentle, by which I suppose I mean I get coy.
I am also, still, tremulous and weak.
'Nice seduction technique, too,' I offer.
I am sure he blushes. He doesn't deny the charge. I know
I am digging, wanting information and sneaky with it, using
the situation.
I try not to gulp down the carbonara he makes too greedily
as that would make me ill as well as looking even more like
a pig. A pig in a pink flannelette nightmare. Something about
the way he slices bread and puts it in front of me makes me
dissolve and suddenly I am a weeping heap and embarrassed
with it. Simon puts his arms around me and says, 'Sweetheart,
don't. Don't do this to yourself. It's all under control now.'
Strangely, it feels like it is but my tears are redoubled.
And what did he just call me? I finally get a grip and say,
Was it just lucky you came by or what?'
This sounds like both a statement and a question and,
really, I would love it if it were left hanging without a
reply. That way I can convince myself later that no harm
at all was done. But I have to know how he came to be
our saviour. I want it to be an innocuous reason but I keep
expecting catastrophe, or near avoidance of disaster,
because that is my territory, the place where we live. I am
not wrong.
'I met May on the street,' he says.
I am devastated. This is the worst news but he is right
to tell me. She should not have been out, not without me.
She cannot be alone any more. I have failed the most
vulnerable person I know.
'Kitty, you're not well,' Simon says.
Simon says. Isn't that a game? I feel sleepy again but must
try to keep going here. I focus on his earnest face but it's
hard when the handsome prisms keep shifting. I bet I look
drunk, eyes drooping.
'You can't do it by yourself. Not all of the time. May hadn't
gone far. She was looking for Hannah because she had an
"intimate problem" and she didn't want to bother you because
you were sleeping. She said you deserved it.'
'Mum said that?'
'Yes. And she called you Kitty.'
He holds me in his gaze and I notice that his eyes are a
devastating grey-green-turquoise combination. A person
could lose herself, if it weren't for Dan. He says, 'The only
one being unfair to someone round here is you to yourself.
You take on too much and leave yourself open to the failure
you expect. Give yourself a break. Some of us think you're
great, even without the heroics.'
It's nice of him to say so. I am grateful. He's wrong, though.
I messed up today, no way round that fact. It won't happen
again. I want to change the subject and, without thinking, I
ask the first thing that comes into my scrambled head: 'Why
are you single?' 'At your age' is a given, as in 'at mine too'.
He is not looking at me as he answers, those wonderful eyes
choosing another point to address. His turned-away neck
looks wonderfully vulnerable. I'd like to bite it. I must be
raving still.
'I never met the right person. Or no one I recognised as
being the one. Does that make me a cliche? I dunno. You?'
I won't blame my fever or say I am disorientated. The
fact is this; I want to tell someone. For the first time ever
I admit, 'Mine's a married man.' I try an ironic shrug but it
hurts my weary bones.
'Dan,' he says.
It seems we are both up to speed and I don't know how
we got here. Now I want to tell him everything. No, that's
not it, I have to. I have to tell him the entire story. It spews
out of me in an unstoppable flow. The phrase to 'spill the
beans' hops into my mind then and I know that there is
probably a very ordinary story to explain the phrase and I
think then how odd that this occurs to me at such a crucial
moment. But the mind is a strange place, as Mum and I
have discovered.
'I have done a very bad thing,' I say, and then I cannot
stop. I bare my soul. My mouth takes over and I tell this
man, whom I have only just met, about my life and how it
has come to an impasse and now I feel I cannot go on but
I must, because to stop is not an option. It is incoherent and
heartfelt and although I fear I will regret this, I cannot stop
now. I am so depleted, physically and mentally, that the
easiest course is to tell all and deal with the fallout later.
When I am done I am sweating and shaking again. I yawn
and find it difficult to keep my eyes open. I am dizzy with
the euphoria of it all.
Simon tells me I should have a bath while he changes the
bedclothes. I haven't the energy to argue. At least there is
no longer a mirror in the bathroom to show me how wretched
I look. I might feel I was seeing strangers, too, if I could see
this person I am tonight, all pale and broken. When I am
washed and changed, into a slightly less hideous nightgown,
I crawl into the clean nest of duvet and fresh cotton sheets
and Simon lies on top on the other side and we both sleep.
Thank you,' I say, as I drift away.
'Any time,' he whispers, and I know he means that. 'By
the way,' he adds, 'you can forget going to Norwich later.
You need rest.'
I am glad to let him take over even if it's only for a short
while. We'll worry about the big things then too. For now
there is nothing to do but to sleep.
Simon listened to Kitty's story. Although it cut him to hear
about Dan he felt he now knew this woman better than he
did any other person on earth: a strange new situation for
him. An added responsibility. He was both gladdened and
appalled by this. He now knew her history and who 'the
other man' was. Well, he had worked that out quickly enough
in the hours when she'd called out the name 'Dan' repeatedly
as she raved in her sleep and he waited for her fever
to break.
He did not judge her in the light of her aberration. He
was not a man who was quick to point the finger in these
matters. He thought no less of her for it. What he saw was
a beautiful and haunted woman who was capable of love and
courage and fidelity.
May appeared at the bedroom door.
'Has Ellen had her baby?' she asked. 'It's very quiet.'
He went to her. 'Go back to bed, May, there's nothing to
worry about.' He had no idea who Ellen was, but perhaps
neither did May. Keep it calm, he thought, and say nothing
definitive.
He watched her climb into bed and settle herself, fretting,
murmuring to herself.
'Ellen's baby died,' she told him. 'And then Ellen was
dead too.' She sighed. 'At least, I think that's what happened.'
She shook her head sadly. 'Sometimes it's hard to remember.'
Go to sleep now.'
Yes. Thank you.'
He was unused to this sort of gratitude. Usually he didn't
deserve it, he thought. People thanked him superficially
every day, for advice, a business transaction, a tip on a book
or a courtesy, but he was observing no more than old-fashioned manners, essentially. Alexis Montford once thanked him 'for
the shag'. Mind you, she'd meant it. Often the women in
his life used their thanks as a heavy irony, which he was well
able to ignore. For people to be genuinely grateful to him
for a kindness, a good deed, was a new sensation. He was
well beyond his comfort zone here, he knew, and probably
should be scared. Too late. He was in this to his neck and
beyond. Was that good? He wasn't sure. It shook him, that
much was certain.
He watched Kitty sleep and wondered where her
thoughts were now. He would have liked to have been in
her head, to share some more of her, or wrapped around
her like a lock, to protect her, keep her safe. The thought
of touching her brought with it a reminder of other needs
and passions.
He hadn't had sex since arriving in Pennick. With anyone
but himself, he qualified. It didn't feel like a hardship, though,
as he'd have regarded it elsewhere. He seemed to be keeping
himself for a woman in love with a man she could never
have, a woman who might never shake off the ghost of her
first and only affair of the heart. And he didn't care. He was
prepared to offer himself and take the chance that she might
love him, eventually. There, he'd admitted it: love, the worst
of all afflictions. The surrendering of the self into the
hands of another in the hope that they would not reject or
simply be careless with your gift. He wanted to know this
woman's greatest hopes and worst fears, as surely as his mouth
and tongue wanted to taste her physically. He wanted to
become necessary to her.

It's like I have a Mum Monitor in her head: when she stirs
so do I. And so does Simon. In the morning he looks tired,
stubbly but kind. He gestures quickly for me to stop what I'm
attempting.
'No, Kitty, you are to stay where you are. Hannah said to call her when May got up. You are not to move an inch.'
'I really do feel a lot better,' I insist, and I do.
'I'm not interested. You are staying put.'
I quite like this bossy edge to him. 'Can I at least use the
telephone to tell Miss Marshall that I won't be in?'
I'll think about it.' He smiles. 'Tea and toast first.'
That does sound divine. I lie back against the pillows and
try to relax. Mum is jabbering away downstairs and I wonder
if she is talking to someone else or to herself. Simon appears
with breakfast and asks if it would be all right for him to
shower. That makes me laugh out loud.
'I think it's the least you deserve after last night's shining
armour routine,' I say.
He runs his hand through his hair and shifts from foot to
foot. If he has more to saw he thinks better of it and soon I
hear the noises of a man washing in our little bathroom.
They are happy sounds.
There's a new toothbrush under the sink,' I call to him.
'Are you the least vain family in the world, or else
vampires?' he asks on his return.
'Worse,' I tell him. My voice falters for a moment but I
rally. 'Mum was seeing strangers in the mirrors so we got
rid of them. I have a little hand one if you're worried about
how you look.'
'I'll settle for you telling me I'm fine.'
'You are.' Better than fine, I could have added, but that
would be impertinent and I don't want to embarrass him in
any way.
I find I don't want him to leave and I get the impression
that he doesn't want to go either but he must and he does.
Hannah yoo-hoos as she comes through the front door and
I hear her chattering with Mum. I can doze again. I'm hoping
my dreams won't bring Dan as close this time, or at all. I
must move on. I must make something of life without him.
The last face to drift through my mind as I slip away is Simon
Hill's. I lie with eyes closed, trying his name for size. 'Si'
makes my face stretch into a smile then 'mon' forms a pucker,
like the prelude to a kiss. Such silliness makes me grin, eyes
still shut. I have a new friend.
The next time I wake, my head pounds as if I'm hungover.
The house is quiet. I look around the room and the walls
seem far too close to the bed. It's a sensation I recognise.
When I was a child this skewed perspective always heralded
a nightmare. I force myself up and out to thwart it. I shrug
into a fresh outfit, promising my body a shower as soon as
it is fed.
A note on the table says Mum and Hannah have gone for
a walk. Mum has signed it and her handwriting looks as if
a spider has crossed the page dipped in ink. I am alone and
that should be bliss but the silence agitates me. It seems
unfriendly. I am used to bustle at work, mayhem here at
home. I turn on the radio and refuse to let melancholy make
me cry. Simon has left a sheaf of papers to be checked for
any mention of French parole prisoners. I spread them out
and begin to read.
I finally get into the swing of the day. Its so different from
other weekdays, it takes time for me to shake off my vague
anxiety that I should be doing something else. Margo has
taken over in the station in my absence so that assuages some
of the guilt. I find myself wondering if the 15.10 to Norwich will be on time and whether Dan will have to calm anyone
down if it's late. There are times when that particular service
is like the last train out of Dodge, with passengers desperate
to be on it, and we have never figured out why. Dan loves
to quote the local saying that Norfolk is cut off on three
sides by the sea and on the fourth by the railway.
Mum returns and stands with her hand on her hips, singing 'el nombre' along with a caped cartoon mouse on the television.
I wonder if it's just a coincidence that so many
programmes seem to be teaching Spanish or perhaps I have
not been around long enough to see the other stuff she likes
to watch. I know she is not learning the language, as I joked
she was with Val. Mum is not able to make new memories
so she's mimicking the pleasant, catchy sounds and maybe
here and there is a word that is steeped in her head from
long ago and can be rooted out now to suit the moment.
We had another kind of moment earlier when I found
her wandering about naked from the waist down. She had
'done her business', as she put it, and had left all of the
clothes taken off in the process on the bathroom floor. She
still hates the incontinence pads but fights them less each
time. I am glad to see a flashpoint losing its significance. I
am less thrilled to be seeing my mothers privates on display,
as accustomed as I am becoming to them.
I have asked Simon and Mona over to review our findings.
I did wonder whether I just wanted to see Simon
again, plain and simple, but I think it's clear enough we're
likely to be friends rather than anything else. My mind is
too full of Dan to be going anywhere new. Also, I don't
feel I could have the presumption to ask anyone to take
on a woman like myself, so much on the rebound, so full
of grief for a lost dad, complete with a glorious but batty
mum. It is what it is and we'll leave it so. My heart warms
with gratitude to think of him, though, and what he has
already done for us. He didn't have to but he stepped in
when needed. He is a good man.
I have become engrossed in my study of the French
prisoners throughout the day. I think we should begin our
own record of each of the individuals we encounter. I have
fallen under the spell of local history. And there I was,
thinking that Pennick had none.
Out of nowhere I remember Alice North's attempt at
making money from Pennick's past. She bought a rickshaw
one summer and could be hired to conduct an historical tour
of the town. It never took more than thirty minutes. The
main problem was that she wasn't fit enough to be cycling
anywhere, let alone pedalling for three. There also wasn't
that much to see. She had to give the venture up before it
killed her. She uses the rickshaw now to do her shopping at
Tesco but has to put up with a lot of teasing along the way.

Kitty had made a discovery and Simon wanted to praise her
fulsomely but it was another nail driven through his own
initial academic arrogance. He had so wanted to impress her
in those early stages he had forgotten the basic tenets of his
craft and presented too early and neat a solution to the
mystery of the initials. They now had a second FV. Kitty had
found mention of a Fenella Vickers in the annals of the house
occupied by Dr Monroe of Cross Street in the early 1800s.
Fenella was known as Nelly in the records, for the most part,
but one pertinent mention in the good doctor's diary had
led Kitty to make the connection.
She was the household maid. There's talk of soirees
involving the captured soldiers so perhaps she knew one of
them?' Kitty stumbled charmingly on the word 'soirees' and
Simon felt a heel as he cautioned her then.
'Let's not jump to conclusions,' he warned, just ahead of
Mona doing so, he guessed. 'Much as we'd like to,' he added,
softening the blow.
'I understand,' she said, and he knew she did.
Kitty had joined them now. They were three historians.
Mona was working her way through sundry official documents
of the time and Simon had commandeered parish
records as his field.
'Rather you than me,' Mona had said. 'Norfolk does not
lack for churches, that's for certain, and Pennick is no exception.
Dr Monroe's house is still standing in Cross Street, by
the way. A family called Richards lives there. Lovely garden
out back.' She shuffled her papers into order and prepared
to take her leave.
May called, 'Good night, Jessie,' as she made for the door.
Kitty apologised but Mona would have none of it.
'She's spot on,' Mona said. 'That's my nickname, after
Jessica Fletcher the television sleuth. I would love to think
it's also because I look like Angela Lansbury, but I fear not.
I spend my life nosing about, sniffing through local history,
so I have a bit of a reputation. Can't help it, I was born
curious. Isn't that right, May?'
'What?' She looked from Mona to the others, a rabbit
caught in the headlights. 'Do I know you?'
'Ah, well, it was nice while it lasted,' Mona said. 'I'll let
you young things get on with it. Shall we fix our next meeting
for the weekend? Should give us time to get on top of our
assignments.'
Kitty and Simon agreed and were left feeling like awkward
teenagers after she'd gone. May was giggling at the 'And
finally' item on the news about a naughty squirrel that had
teamed up with a thieving robin in a London park.
Simon began, 'I should have said this morning that Hannah
helped you with changing and so on last night, as well as
May, in case you thought there was any impropriety or
anything you might have been embarrassed by.'
'Thanks for that,' Kitty said, remembering that Simon had
pretty much undressed her when she was first put to bed,
and stroked her naked back with a facecloth. It was nice that
he tried to put her mind at rest, though.
'I do hope we'll find them,' he said, referring to the papers.
'Yes.'
May's laughter broke into the near silence of the room.
A fire crackled in the grate.

I am wishing goodnight to Simon at the door when my mobile
rings. It is Dan. Simon sees the callers name, or guesses,
and says he'll be off but I know he is reluctant to leave me
to take this call. I answer and know immediately from the
sounds on the other end that Dan is close by. Simon does
his foot-to-foot routine, raises his hand in a half-wave and
starts slowly down the street. I watch his back, not quite
retreating, more stepping away so as not to interfere but
available should he be needed.
'I heard you were unwell,' Dan says in a low voice.
Perhaps he doesn't want me to hear how close he is.
'It was just a twenty-four-hour thing,' I say.
I don't want to get into a conversation with him. I am
trying, with every last shred of common sense I have, to
extricate myself from him, and us.
'I could come round if you need me,' he goes on.
'No. Thank you, but no.'
I want to say I don't need him; that's what the 'no' means,
but I can't get those words out.
'Kitty, I ..." he falters, tries again. 'I ... that is, we ... no,
me, me ... I probably never . . .'
I don't want to hear whatever the never is. It's too late. I
must refuse to go back.
It's okay, Dan, I know. It's fine. I have to go now. Mum
needs me. Thanks for calling.'
'I'll see you,' he says. That's one of those loaded questions
couched as a casual statement. It exhausts me.
'Yes, you'll see me. Goodnight.'
We are done. Simon is at the corner and looks back. I wave
with the phone hand so that he can see that I have finished
with Dan. For some reason this is important to me and also,
I think, to him. He waves back and blows a little air-kiss. I
suppose Dan has seen this from his hiding place. As I turn
to 20 it is Donna I think of and how she must feel now, sitting
at home, assuming he has come to me.
Did I think of her down the years? Yes, occasionally, but
not as much as I should have, that's the shameful truth. If
I had, I wouldn't have let the charade go on for as long as
it did. At least I hope that is true because the alternative is
not something any decent person could live with. In the
depths of my heart I know I will always make excuses and
seek to explain my actions. That is the life sentence I will
endure. I wish I had some way to atone for it all but, just
at this minute, I have no comfort to offer her.
FIFTEEN

May was trying to pee in the kitchen sink when the Healthcare
Visitor arrived, which was excellent timing, Kitty thought, if undignified.
The woman took it in her stride. She looked as if
she'd seen it all before and nothing startled her any more. She
radiated pure indifference. Kitty sent May upstairs with clear
instructions to use the proper loo, wash her hands and then come back to talk to the nice visitor. She made a pot of tea
while trying to keep up conversation with the stranger who, for
her part, spent the time making notes about the house. May
arrived back on the scene in her incontinence pants but without
her plaid trousers. Kitty told her to go back up to put them
on. May snapped.
'Shut up! Shut up, you. It's all "don't do this" and "don't
do that". Nothing I do is good enough. I'm sick of it, so shut
up you!'
She stormed upstairs and banged a few doors for good
measure while she was there.
Is that regular?' the woman asked.
'Arguing, yes, though the temper display is unusual.'
A scribbled note.
'Do you work?'
'Until now I have but my dad died a fortnight ago and
I'm on compassionate leave.'
She was granted a curt nod of acknowledgement while
the writing continued
'Just you, is it?'
'Just me,' Kitty confirmed. She wondered if this woman
ever broke double figures when choosing words for a
sentence. 'I have great neighbours and there is a very active
club locally that helps out with people like Mum.'
'She's a handful.'
'Yes, she's been called that before.'
'Have you thought about residential care?'
'Not really.'
'You should.'
I'm hoping that's a way off yet.'
'It may not be. Consider it. Here's a list of places you
can visit, put her name down for a vacancy. In the meantime,
I'll recommend you get all we have to offer in the
way of home help, such as it is.' The woman took a swift
slurp of tea, for form's sake, then changed gear. 'This is
now about what's best for both of you, not just her, although
she needs her dignity maintained and good care, of course.
You have to think of yourself too. You're no good to anyone,
especially your mother, if you're worn to the bone. Don't
overdo it or play the martyr: that way you'll both sink and
you'll be doing no one any favours. I'll give you my lecture
about not being fair to your mother by keeping her here
too long without professional care on my next visit. You'll
love it, it's a real corker.'
Seemed she went to double figures when it really
mattered. Kitty had a bad feeling about that promised lecture.
Time was shifting again: the sands were slipping away faster
than she'd anticipated, and rapidly running out.

On Thursday, Benny arrives at the door, in bits.
'It's Roly,' he says. 'He won't stop crying and he's off his
food.'
It looks to me like Roly is not the only one.
'Kitty, you have to do something.'
I am terrified Benny will burst into tears in front of me
and wreck the delicate balance he has achieved between
his own extreme oddness and the ability to interact socially
with other people. I agree to come to the station but point
out we'll have to bring Mum along too. We muffle ourselves
up against the cold while Benny has a quick cup of instant
coffee then venture forth, a motley association of oddballs
and misfits.
I wave to Jed at the allotments. Benny is appalled to see
such an elderly man pushing a wheelbarrow. He goes over
to help and the two strike up a conversation. Benny appears
to have no problem understanding Jed's archaic drant.
Someone should be recording this. The two are conversing
in a musical score, inaccessible to anyone but the players.
Soon they are laughing. I realise I know little enough about
the night watchman. He might be steeped in deepest Norfolk
tradition like Jed. I think he's from Gately, just out of town,
but I'm not sure. I really should ask.
I take time to check my plot and Mum wanders about
chattering. I notice she is carrying a framed photo of Dad
and me.
I'm bringing these people for a walk, dear,' she explains,
then mutters, 'not that its any of your business.'
I am a pest and a nosey-parker. Donna used to call me
that when we were kids. I am again touched with regret for
our lost friendship, in the very spot where most of my crimes
against it took place. Dan's plot is neat and tended. He has
been here recently but I am glad he's not here now. Hell
probably be at the station when we get there. However, I
am travelling in an entourage and unlikely to find myself
alone with him. There should be no visible awkwardness.
When we resume our journey Benny is full of chat about
Jed and how he is going back to help him with a leak in his
shed roof later. All the lonely people, I think.
In the few days I have been gone, Margo has clearly
barred Roly from the office. He is on the concourse, curled
up in a ball under a bench. As a rule, he wouldn't get so
close to the passengers, though he is not above begging if
they are feasting on something nice. I call his name and
he looks intensely suspicious of me. He circles slowly to
make sure he knows me then lets out a wail that would cut
glass. His coat is matted and he looks thin. I reach down
to stroke him and he leaps into my arms, overbalancing
me. There's a bit of weight to him yet. I rub his head and
he puts his paws on my shoulders and presses his furry
face to mine. He's still crying out about being abandoned
while searching my face for answers. I see I am doomed.
I catch Benny's eye and find he is holding a cat carrier,
ready for me to take Roly home with me. I have been
ambushed. There is nothing for it but to give in.
Passengers congregate and the familiar ones tell me about
offering him tidbits that he was not interested in. That's not
like him at all,' Vivie Stephens says, and she's right. Roly
lives for his grub.
Vivie is delighted to see Mum, as are a few of the others
who know her. She is polite to them although she doesn't
recognise anyone. She holds out the photograph and introduces
people to her husband and daughter. It is the first time
I have heard her refer to Dad in that way. I wonder why they
never told me they were married. It's something I will probably
never know the answer to. Dad has taken his reason to
the grave with him and Mum has had hers stolen by
Alzheimer's. 'A lovely man,' is the consensus. I decide we'd
better hurry away before grief undoes me again. The lovely man is no more and he will be missed forever.
We load Roly up and leave without encountering Dan. I
don't know whether I am grateful or sad about that. Margo
will report this theft of the station cat to him later, if she
can be bothered. I will text to explain. I wonder how he is
and if he too looks thin and matted. Does he cry for me?
Benny carries Roly back to our little terraced house. The
neighbours hear the cat calling from a distance, still
complaining about his lot, and appear at their doors to
welcome him. You'd swear we were coming home from
hospital with a new baby, the fuss they all make. Roly Fulton
arrived today, they'll say, sitting around the dinner table later.
A big lad, a healthy six-pounder, great set of lungs.
By the time we get home, the people in Mum's photograph
are Ellen and her dad. They have enjoyed the walk
greatly, apparently. Inside, I open the door of the cage and
Roly emerges cautiously. He takes a moment to stretch and
look about him then, with an elegant leap, joins Mum on
the sofa in front of the fire.
'Pegasus,' she says to me, and I understand this is her
word for 'cat' now.
'I'll make us a nice chicken risotto,' I say.
Roly gives a yawn and looks as though he was always
destined for that couch and this house and our lives. He's
home at last.

Miss Marshall assured Kitty she did not need to come to
the office for the time being.
'Are you absolutely sure you don't mind?' Kitty asked.
'Please tell me if you do. I don't want it to look like I don't
care or I'm taking advantage of you. I would just like to get
sorted here before I start.'
This was the closest she had come to admitting that she
had forsaken her job at the station. As the hours went by
she knew she could not go back. There was only forward
now, the past would have to look after itself.
'There's nothing you can't do from home, for the moment,'
Miss Marshall assured her.
Kitty had a moment of sheer panic then, thinking of what
might happen if Marie Marshall decided to retire. There was
no reason for the woman to feel any huge loyalty to the
business now that Stephen was gone. That was a conversation
to be had face to face, and soon, another pitfall identified,
underlining the fragility of all Kitty's arrangements.
I'll send you some manuscripts that need looking at,' Miss
Marshall continued. 'We all look forward to you joining us.'
I'm looking forward to being there,' Kitty told her. As
well as feeling terrified, she might have added.
The poetry was a revelation. Kitty had assumed she
wouldn't be up to expressing any views on the work, but
her father and mother had always insisted she was more
than capable of simply enjoying a poem for itself and
declared that that counted as much as any other consideration.
So, she let the words play out before her and, while
sometimes she got lost, found she could identify the basic
themes underlying the poets' intentions and still appreciate
those when all else failed her. She would have to take
specialised advice on the academic side of the business,
of course, and could only hope she would be as good at
weeding out the worthwhile from the nonsense when it
came to choosing projects for that area in the future. 'When in doubt, ask,' her father had always said. 'There's
no shame in admitting you don't know it all.'
Kitty was surrounded by books and manuscripts at home.
She had both her firm's work in progress and the historical
research to get through. Hours would fly by as she immersed
herself in one or other, the only punctuations May 'moments'
or Roly demanding attention. Both had to be watched carefully.
The cat could not understand why the door was not
left open all the time for him to come and go.
'Listen, mate,' Kitty said, 'talk to Benny if you've got issues.
You cooked up this scheme between you and now you've
got to stay in here till you get used to your new home.'
'He's not listening to you,' her mother told her. 'He's a
. . . hairy thing.'
May had seen the cat use his litter tray a few times and
decided it would be good to adopt the same practice. A plastic
domed roof was quickly added to Roly's loo and May escorted
to the human one whenever it was clear she needed it. A lot
of the time it was immaterial and the incontinence pad had
to do its bit. Then it was up to Kitty to spot this as her mother
didn't always remember to tell her. Kitty had become adept
at reading the signs. There is not a lot we cannot cope with
between us, she reasoned. Each new detail and difficulty could
be worked through, added to their routine and dealt with
accordingly.
Sophie was the first of the new home helps to arrive. May
was fascinated by the woman's black skin: she touched it, then
checked her fingertips to see if they'd changed colour. Sophie
laughed off Kitty's embarrassment at her mothers behaviour.
'If that's the worst that happens me, I'll be doing well,'
she insisted.
'That makes me even more nervous,' Kitty said. 'Like
disaster is just waiting to pounce.'
'Nah, it's not about to get you, you're living it. That's why
I'm here to help.'
It felt good to have that acknowledged.
'I don't recognise May's accent,' Sophie commented.
'Mum's Irish. Grew up in a small town north of Dublin.
But she's lived here for longer than she ever spent there.'
Kitty felt uncomfortable talking about her mother as if
she was not in the room, though May wasn't paying much
attention. She had other things exercising her, which she
decided to offload.
'You're black and you're fat,' she told the care worker.
Sophie laughed heartily. 'That's true. Now we're cooking.'
I'm so sorry. She goes through phases of brutal honesty'
I prefer that. I don't have enough time left in my life for
people to waste it with lies or platitudes.'
Kitty found the way she elongated 'plaateetyoods'
wonderful. It gave it the extra 'oomph' a word like that
deserved.
'Can we have some of Granny Larkin's cake?' May wanted
to know.

Having Sophie here feels like luxury. I can take my eye off
the ball occasionally without worrying that there'll be a
disaster, or even a minor incident for which I must blame
myself. I notice the magnitude of it more now than if I was
out at work all day, and that makes me appreciate how
generous friends and neighbours have been to us throughout
the course of this disease. I have paid Hannah and Val
for their time and work in the past, but not enough and I
know that. Now, I am the owner of a business and have the
money Dad left for Mum's care, so I will give them a pay
rise. The opportunity to do this feels so good. It's such a
shame Dad can't be here to share it.
Mum is taking a nap and I try one too. I can't lie on the
bed with her as I would like to. When I am Ellen she clings
to me or follows me around asking questions. It really is like
having a pesky little sister. When I am Kitty she smiles a lot
and hugs me. But mostly I am no one special. Then, she
sees me as friendly but I can tell she isn't entirely sure of
me, so sharing an afternoon snooze with her is out of the
question. I lie on my own bed conscious that I have rarely
shared it with anyone for very long. That's about to change.
Roly has set his sights on it and, specifically, me in it. He
lies on top of the duvet covering me, the length of him
stretching from my chin to my legs. I am pinned to the bed
with very little wriggle room. I can feel his purring vibrate
through him and the sound is all around us in the room,
below it the bass drum of his heart beating against his ribs
in counterpoint to mine. The only other heartbeat I have
felt this strong and this close is Dans.
'I don't suppose its of any interest to you,' I wheeze, 'but
I cannot breathe properly'
Roly blinks at me, not a lot more. He's got inscrutable
down to a tee.
'How about a deal? You sleep on one side of the bed, me
the other.'
No go.
I close my eyes and enjoy his heart beat fluttering with
mine, grateful of the affection, wondering if I'll make it to
waking up, what with the oxygen deprivation and really not
caring if I don't. This is as close to perfect happiness as I've
been in a long while. I am flying on the wings of a cat named
Roly Pegasus, a magical creature who brings great joy for
the price of a chicken risotto. There's not a lot to argue with
there.

The trick with the Parish Records was not to get sidetracked
by other interesting stories. There were so many,
Simon found. Open a bound tome at random and there
were a hundred fascinating details of town life, often written
in a beautiful hand. He would look at the roster of priests
and deans and match them to their handwriting, forming
whimsical images of them in his mind based on the slant
of their letters and their idiosyncratic flourishes. He would
read between the lines of the births, christenings, marriages,
funerals. That wasn't very scholarly of him, strictly speaking,
but some things could be inferred: many events were perennial;
others carried the weight of history and had a pattern.
He particularly loved stories about those married before
or during a war, always a sucker for wanting to know what
became of the lovers.
He had expected some French parole prisoners might
have married into the community, and here at St Cuthbert's
there was the record of a marriage between Armand De
Louis and one Margaret Gibson of Bishop's Lane. A scant
three months later their son was born and baptised Jean,
but sadly died within a few weeks. Kitty had suggested they
log all of the information they encountered about the parole
prisoners and he thought that a good idea. It was more work,
sure, but it was a fascinating and much-neglected part of
the town's history and their researches would not be wasted.
It occurred to him that to trace the graves of those people
they identified would also be an idea.
He found no one with the initials FV or AC, and decided
they needed to check whatever census results were logged for
the early 1800s as well as the church records. The United
Kingdom census proper was started in 1801, championed by
an English statistician called John Rickman who was responsible
for the first four, until 1831. What excited Simon most
about that fact was that the census, although little more than
a head count at the time, was set up in part to ascertain the
number of men available to fight in the Napoleonic Wars,
exactly the period they were investigating. He loved an omen,
and this seemed a good one.
Yawning, he glanced at the wall clock. The evening had
galloped by. It was 10.30, probably time to call it a night.
He still had St Melchior's and St Peters to visit as well as a
full-time job to keep. Perhaps Mona could concentrate some
of her undisputed energies on census results. After all, she
was the one supposed to have time on her hands now.
Simon's neck cricked as he stretched it. He was glad the
Dean had left him to his work in the church sacristy and
had not invited him into the parish house next door. Being
inside church homes meant tea and explanations, polite
chitchat, when all he wanted was to get stuck into the records.
He took off the cotton gloves he wore when handling delicate
books and records. He gathered his papers, collating
loosely as he went, and put them in the battered satchel his
parents had given him when he left for college. The buckle
always made a satisfying clunk as he pressed it home.
Sometimes he did it twice to hear the sound again.
It was too late to go calling on anyone now. Or rather, not
just anyone, Kitty. He would text to say that he was doing
well and looking forward to swapping notes with her. He
couldn't help wondering if they would ever progress beyond
this project and on to another level, as a couple, but a complication
like romance was the last thing Kitty needed right now.
He would cultivate her friendship, in the traditional way, and
hope that the future would deliver something more. Just as
well he had the dual patience of a librarian and historian.
Mentally, that is. Physically, he was crying out for attention.
It was not a situation he had regularly found himself in and
he was unsure how to handle it. Pennick was a small town
and to go about the business of a dalliance, just for base relief, was fraught with the potential of discovery. He didn't
want anything to put Kitty Fulton off. No one was removed
more than a few degrees from anyone else in this place. On
top of that, he found he wasn't interested in becoming involved with anyone just for the sake of sex, a new feeling that
surprised and slightly unsettled him. He would hold fire, for
the time being; perhaps join a gym to expend excess energy.
He yawned again and watched the vapour of his breath
disperse towards the high ceiling. It was time to search out
the Dean, to thank him and ask if there was a map or list
of the graves surrounding the church. He passed the wall
plaques commemorating those fallen in the wars. He loved
these places, silent monuments acknowledging great sacrifice.
His footfalls echoed against the stone, a small tribute
from the living to honour the dead.
I try to explain to Mum that we'll have new people helping
us from now on. She is worried about her friends although
she finds it hard to name them. I tell her they will still be
here too. She gets into a lather about where everyone will
fit. She is clearly fretting and I know it's because she is frightened
at so much apparent change and struggling to come
to grips with the idea of new personnel. She has probably
forgotten that I go to work most days, too. She wants to trust
me but she can't, as benign as I look and sound. I start to
make a list and try to go through it with her.
'I don't want Ursula again,' she says. 'She slaps me.'
I don't know who she means by Ursula. Is she getting
someone's name wrong? Is it possible someone is hitting
Mum or treating her badly when I am not around? That
cuts me to the quick. I trust all of the people I let mind her.
I have to hope she's confused and not referring to one of
our carers. I will have to be extra vigilant.
She is moving around the room, touching photographs
and things she's known for years, using them as talismans to
ground her. She is trying to rebuild her shrinking universe,
hoping that a touch or glance will unlock new meaning. Each
item, and its present worth, is probably lost to her the
moment she moves on. Still, it seems to bring some sort of
comfort.
'Who exactly are you again, dear?' she asks me. 'Remind
me. My memory is not what it used to be.'
'I'm Kitty.'
'Kitty?' She frowns. 'That's the same name as my daughter.
Are you sure you're not trying to make a tool of me?'
'I am your daughter Kitty.'
'No, you're not,' she says with conviction.
'I am, you know.' Stupid to say 'you know' when clearly
she does not know any such thing.
'No,' she reiterates.
'I'm Kitty,' I insist, as calmly as possible.
This is getting us nowhere and she doesn't believe me at any rate. I don't know what to do to prove my case. I might
cry but I must not. It will upset Mum. It will upset me.
'You are not my daughter. You couldn't be. You're English.'
Wow. The sheer logic of the statement stuns me. I didn't
see that one coming. Never would have, I don't think. It has
not been an issue before. I'm not sure we have ever spoken
meaningfully about her being Irish and me English. It's just
something that we are. She has never particularly worn her
Irishness as a badge and I have never really explored it as
part of my heritage. We put on a bit of green on St Patrick's
Day but that's for fun, not for any great nationalistic reason.
This, now, has left me lost for words. And if it is important
to her that she is an Irishwoman amongst so many English,
she must feel very alone.
Why has it become an issue? I wonder. It's probably
random. This creeping disease has no system for selecting
the parts of her brain to shut down. It started in her
hippocampus and simply followed the trails of its own
destructive path. Today, it might just as easily have stopped
her gag reflex. Instead, it is still chiselling away at her life's
experiences, taking them from her one by one and leaving
her with a set of ideas she cannot join up in any effective
or cogent way. Her being Irish is something she grew up
with. Experiences in childhood are deeply entrenched, more
than those of later years, having been mulled over so often
in a lifetime. This aspect of her identity has far more chance
of being remembered by dint of being there from the start.
I was not, and therefore my details are more easily jettisoned.
It is another withering blow.
But I am glad that she has something of herself to hold
on to. She is Irish. Bully for Mum, genuinely. It's a shame
her brain won't allow for an English daughter but I cannot
blame her for that. I have to remind myself sternly that this
is the Alzheimer's talking, not May Fulton, not my entire
mum, because she is unavailable to us any more. In the
meantime, I am not her daughter and therefore, in part,
she is not my mother. This is so unfair and sad I want to
give up.
Mum has never needed to make a big thing of being Irish.
Her accent has mellowed slightly through the years but still
readily proclaims her, and apart from that she's never wanted
anything more of it or what it stands for. Singsong Norfolk
it is for me: as you were, Kitty Fulton.
I think of the few times Mum took me to Ireland. I could
always tell she was reluctant to go, bent as she was on making
it exciting for me. On the first occasion we visited, I was
very small and I remember she said, 'We'd better give your
grandmother a go of you.' I was sick on the boat and wan
and vague-looking by the time we got there. The gnarled
old witch held my chin in a vice-like grip to check out my
face. I can still feel the cold imprint of her bony fingers
digging into my flesh. I didn't recognise any trace of myself
in her but children probably don't see such things. I got
malice all right: it would have been hard not to pick up on
that.
'She's the living image of your father,' she told Mum, and
I was sure that wasn't a compliment.

'Would you listen to the little English accent on her,' was
another comment repeated to all who came to check out
the returned prodigal and her foreign offspring. Again, I
didn't get the impression she was pointing out anything that
pleased her.
Still, she pressed money into my hand as we left, even if
it wasn't sterling, and I got to go home and boast that I had
a grandmother.
Subsequent visits revealed that cold hands were good for
making pastry, not that Gran ever wanted to, and religion
was a curse and all who practised it to be avoided. There
must have been something familial in that notion because
Mum agonised about sending me to be schooled by the
Benedictines. I couldn't have cared less. I wanted to be with
Donna, and hang the rest of it. Dad said they gave a great
education and these days they weren't allowed to look sideways
at you without dire consequences. He wasn't much of
a one for organised religion either. He had his own individual
morality which he discreetly passed on. Come to think
of it, I don't think I'm even baptised. They were rebels after
all, my parents.
I try one more run through the list of carers with Mum
but she seems to have given up on me, and the day, and wants
to go to sleep. That has become her favourite activity of late.
I allow myself to be a pushover, yet again. Seems to me I
have spent a lot of my life not rocking the boat. And if that
is so, then I deserve all I've got, or not, to date. I never pushed
Dan for anything, and got nothing. I never pushed myself till
now. The care worker is right: I am no good to anyone else
until I am good for me. I will try very hard to make things
acceptable for Mum at home and a tribute to Dad at work.
And, yes, I will factor me into all of that, too. I wish Simon
were here so that I could discuss this with him. He'd have an
intelligent outsider's perspective, I know. I make a note to ask
for pictures of everyone new to stick on a wall so Mum can
see and check them. I put Simon's name on the list, along
with Mona's.

"Pennick station was Kitty's first stop on her way to work as
a commuter. Margo was not yet in so she had an opportunity
to peek into her old office without provoking comment.
looked small and mean from her new vantage point. Still,
she had a huge battle with herself not to go in and open up,
then had to hide behind a pillar as she saw Dan pass along
the opposite platform. Her breath caught painfully under
her ribs and she felt sure he would sense the panic coming
off her in waves. She had dressed well and taken especial
care with her makeup but, at this last moment, she knew
she couldn't face him. The self suspicion that her efforts
were probably in case she met Dan, rather more than her
first day at Duke Publishing, made her even more agitated.
She started as his voice came over the Tannoy, announcing two delays and a platform change, then groaned aloud like
any other traveller. Buying her ticket was a useful distraction
arid she was pleased to find the machine had been fixed.
She was first to board her train when it finally arrived.
Kitty rustled through sundry relevant papers on the journey
hoping to arrive in the mindset of a publisher, but was more
taken with the faces around her and distracted by the smell
of damp, over-perfumed humans. Her stomach was knotted
with apprehension. She tried various ways to promote inner
peace. She listened to the hum of the engine and clicketty
rhythm of the tracks carrying the train along. Facts were a
balm so she gave herself over to a few of those. Norridge, as
Jed would have it, got its first rail link in 1845. Until then, it
was said to be quicker to travel from Norwich to Amsterdam
by sea than Norwich to London by land. Her mind was packed
with trivia, she decided, though it was a comfort to be distracted
by it.
At the other end of the journey she was carried off the
train in a swell of early-morning commuters, as anonymous
as the next person. She changed into her smart shoes too
early, only to go over on her ankles repeatedly and feel the
leather pinch as she walked from the station to her city
centre office. Kitty had always loved the cobbled streets
leading to her fathers business. Now they were to be her
own route to work and she was too jittery with nerves to
enjoy the walk. Hadn't Noel Coward once remarked, 'Very
flat, Norfolk' in a play? But Norridge had undulations, hills
even where buildings could rise above others. It seemed odd
by comparison with Pennick's flatness. I am in a flat Panic,
Kitty thought, placing one foot in front of the other very
deliberately, to resist stopping altogether from terror.
The office was on Lily Lane, so-called in the days when
the city was renowned for, and awash with, flowers. More
incidental tidbits to clutter the mind of this hick from a hick
town she thought. And all the more galling as Norwich itself
was often regarded as a backwater. London was a metropolis,
Manchester too, whereas Norwich was regularly
dismissed at national level as a country town rather than a
proper city. Yet here she was, frightened by it and what it
now stood for. Sod it, thought Kitty and stopped in a doorway
to change back into her sheepskin boots. Better, much better.
She felt more like herself and a bit more up to continuing
on her way.
The streets were full of quirky art galleries and antique
shops. She wanted to dawdle by their windows, be tempted
by things she didn't need. But she had to get to work and
there was no more putting off her date with the future. She
was reeled in, street by street, resisting the funky shops and
cafes, until she stood before the brass plate bearing the words
'Duke Publishing'. Kitty walked through the office door like
a condemned woman approaching a scaffold.
Miss Marshall looked genuinely delighted to see her. She
had brewed coffee and there were Danish pastries to eat
before tackling the post and, perhaps, the rest of Kitty's
working life. They chatted easily, which was a tribute to the
older woman who gave her new boss the equivalent of a
verbal massage. Kitty relaxed a little and was brought up to
date with the business. Basically, orders were steady and
correspondence unusually high, as notes of condolence
continued to arrive each day.
'Some are wonderful celebrations of your father and stories
that you may not have heard before. I only opened those
that were generally addressed,' Miss Marshall added quickly,
keen to avoid appearing intrusive. 'Anything for immediate
family is on the Desk for you to deal with.'
The Desk was now hers. Kitty foostered about the office,
unwilling to sit at her father's place yet. She felt like a fraud.
At least her toes were warm enough again to risk her court
shoes. Miss Marshall had rescued the few plants her father
had in his house, and the finest, a large rubber plant he'd
called the Triffid, was now settling in to its new spot by the
window. Kitty knew it liked the cold end of a pot of tea, no
milk or sugar. 'Good morning,' she finally said to the room
in general and sat down.
Her fathers desk diary read like a work in progress, with
dates to meet people and see films and plays, but also quotes
he'd especially liked and jotted down. This was not the
schedule of a man who was expecting to die any time soon.
Today, she noticed, he would have lunched with an author
at a wine bar two streets away. An attached note read,
'Remind that manuscript due end of month.' Miss Marshall
confirmed that the work was due in and Kitty decided she
would chase it up. I am living my father's life now, she
thought, but I will have to do it my way.
His handwriting was measured and handsome, a lot like
him. It touched her to sit and read about his world in his
words. Kitty went to the beginning of the book to see what
he'd put for the start of the year. It was a quote from 'Ars
Poetica' by Archibald McLeish:

A poem should not mean
But be.

Stephen had written beside it, 'A poem need not mean,
but should be?' Between those two was where he would
pitch his year, one he would not live to see out.
Miss Marshall knocked on the open door and said, 'I
Wonder if I might have a word.' She looked troubled and
Kitty thought, This is it, she's leaving. She girded herself for
the worst and hoped she wouldn't cry when it happened.
'I realise this is a very difficult time for you and I don't
wish to add to that in any way'
Kitty's jaw began to tremble as she clenched her teeth,
awaiting the killer blow.
'I want you to know that I have had many good years with
the firm ..."
Yes, here it comes.
'. . . but I will understand completely if you want to start
afresh with a new team of your own.'
Kitty waited for more then realised that Miss Marshall
had expected to be let go and not the other way around.
'No,' she said, too loudly. 'Oh, no, not at all. I was worried
that you would leave me,' she explained. 'I was afraid that
you wouldn't want to work for me.'
Miss Marshall looked as though she didn't understand that
concept and might say Don't be silly. Kitty wanted to go to
the other side of the desk and hug her for that. However, it
didn't seem very businesslike, even under the circumstances.
'Thank you so much for wanting to stay with me,' she said
instead. 'I am so glad that you do.'
There were two other members of the small team: Victor
Long and Cameron Field. They worked part-time but had
arranged to be in for Kitty's first day. When they arrived they
greeted her as if she belonged. They ignored her nervousness
and filled the office with pleasing chatter and industry, which
realised was partly from good manners but also because ?hat's how they liked it too. There was no lustiness, but intelligent
banter and fun. Kitty discovered how brilliantly rude
Victor Long was about competitors he felt ranked beneath
Duke Publishing. He was wearing a worn sweatshirt with an
illustration of a sock, a rat and some golf tees on the front. He
told her he'd designed it himself and had lots more in the
pipeline.
'Don't doubt it,' Miss Marshall said. 'He's working on his
Byron at the moment because he's determined to rehabilitate
not just philosophers but poets too. So far, it's a picture
of someone waving at Ron Atkinson.'
'Good, if you recognise Big Ron,' Cameron Field said.
Victor, head of academic publications, led the fun. He was
giddy, gay and mid-forties. Cameron Field liked to hold fire
before delivering his own bombshells, with deadly accuracy
and wit. 'Timing is all,' the poetry editor would say when
they laughed. Miss Marshall steadied the ship, delicately
poised for action and intervention. She was a naturally precise
woman without being prissy with it. She also knew how to
dress the part. Kitty marvelled at her stunning but understated
ensembles of classic pieces, all made of the finest
cotton, silk or cashmere. Kitty knew her yarns from her
mother's heyday as a knitter. She would take bets that Miss
Marshall looked after her clothes very well and that her
vintage pieces were originals she had bought at the time and
carefully held on to. Kitty realised she needed to work on
her new look as a publisher. And perhaps when she was
comfortable in her new role she could progress to calling
Marie simply by that name.
She was consulted about a jacket for a book of poems on
the theme of water. Kitty had read the material the week
before and been struck by the robust images of water's
strength and power over us, our dependence on it. She put the decision to a ballot and a painting by a local artist came
out tops. This was fitting as her father had always fostered
such work, and the small assembly agreed the most appropriate
and deserving image had won.
It's so good to have some of Stephen back here,' Victor
said.
Kitty took a moment to twig. 'You mean, me?'
'Of course. You are the person most like him left in the
world.'
SIXTEEN

The audio books are not the success I'd hoped for. They have
made Mum paranoid. She thinks she is hearing voices in her
head. The narrators have done too good a job and she is
totally immersed in the world they have created using the
authors words. I should have foreseen this but I was distracted
by Norwich and heedless of the main thrust of our life, which
is my mother's welfare. My mind was elsewhere and now
poor Mums is in a mess. She was fine when we had the
books on the speakers in the room, but a move to headphones
scuppered her. We chose a well-reviewed novel and
just one thriller, meant for young teenagers, as I thought
these would be easier for her to follow. We even got some
poetry, but it is the thriller that has done the harm. She's
convinced someone is trying to kill her. I really should have
known better and am ashamed of myself. Even answering
the telephone is a problem as it's more disembodied voices
for her to deal with. I bin the headphones for starters.
I try to explain how the telephone works and find that I
don't actually understand it all that well myself. It is one of
those things we take for granted. Who remembers how they
set up their email account, even, let alone an invention that
has been around as long as the phone? I might as well try
to explain electricity, again something I am hazy on and
inclined to file away under magic, though not the kind that
drives me around the bend. Electricity is good magic, for
the most part, it's magic with an edge and a purpose, not
trickery like sleight of hand is.
I get to thinking that poetry is sleight of hand in its way.
It weaves a deliberate magic, moulding words for a purpose,
to delight and astound but also to bedevil and entrance.
Again, I can't accurately explain how that's done. I seem to
understand little enough about life's embellishments. Yet I
am a woman who decides to unleash such trickery as poetry
on the nation. A smile has crept on to my face. I may be as
maddening as any other hoaxer now. Somewhere a reader
may be cursing me. But it's a benign magic, I hope, and one
that will help. I am certainly under its spell.
When Mum was first diagnosed we had a conversation
with Mr Bishop about anti-psychotic drugs. We didn't want
to go down that road. I am happy to say Mr Bishop agreed,
yet another reason to be a little in love with him. What we
have always clung to is that Mum is not delusional, she is
simply unable to reason out something new or remember it
long enough to understand and assimilate it. The voices in
the telephone need to be explained in language and terms
she can recognise. I find this is best achieved by comparing
it to something from long ago. I tell her our telephone is
like the one in the callbox outside her mother's house in
Ireland but we have a small version here and that the people
calling are doing so to tell us good things, good news.
'I don't have to talk to them if I don't want to,' she checks.
'No, you don't.'
'But I might, sometimes.'
'Yes, you might. That's good too.'
'They're not in the telephone, though, sure they're not?'
'No, it's like a tube that's carrying their messages to us in
our house along this wire from where they are.'
'They're not in the house, so, hiding on us?'
'No.'
'Good.'
She is calm again. It's all about the even keel, making her
feel safe and able to cope.
'We put money in the big, black phone in the box outside
Mam's and you press button A when you get through and
button B when you want the money back. Me and Ellen
always go in and press B when we're passing 'cos sometimes
there's money still in there.'
The telephone wins a reprieve as Mum searches for the
A and B buttons and wonders why it's so small.
I love my time at the Norwich office although I cannot
go in for the full nine to five each day because of Mum.
In particular when she is upset, like she's been about the
voices, it's wrong to leave her for others to deal with, as
wonderful as they all are. I can easily work from here when
I need to, though all of my papers have to be cleared away
in a box under my bed when I am done so there is no danger
of Mum making something from them, usually after a craft
demonstration on daytime television. I saved a manuscript
from becoming a Christmas garland yesterday. It still bears
two fine scissor slashes across the title page: blunt though
the instrument was, it made its mark. There is a lot of Make
and Do in the house at present as Roly has decided to take
up knitting, or at least the unwinding of balls of wool that they might be ready for use by a human companion. Mum finds this most entertaining and will throw balls around for
him for as long as he wants her to. I have lucked out there
because he never goes more than fifteen minutes before
needing to eat and sleep a few hours.
At the height of her powers Mum looked like she was in
a hypnotic trance when she knitted. It was fascinating to
watch. She found it a great way to tune out or to meditate.
Slowly, as her faculties waned, it looked more like she was in combat with the needles and yarn. Now, she is chucking
wool around for a cat to chase.
Roly is allowed to use his cat flap to go forth and terrorise
the neighbourhood with general prowling and the chasing of wind-strewn cartons and cans. We have dispensed with the cat litter so Mum isn't tempted by it any more. She is
resigned to her incontinence pants and constantly checks
she has supplies of both the day and, larger, nighttime
varieties, each of which has its own brightly coloured box in
her room. She chose cerise and lime green there, and I must
admit they look pretty stacked together. Aside from the
strangers in her head, all is well.
The visit to the library was fine but odd. Mum loved being
surrounded by the masses of books and went from section
to section running her fingers along the spines. Sometimes
she touched those she may have half-recognised or perhaps
it was the covers that pleased her. She opened one or two
but immediately lost interest. It reminded me of when I was
a child and played librarian at home. It was the act of opening
and stamping the books that pleased me at the time, not
reading the classics. I checked out Lorna Doone and The
Count of Monte Cristo innumerable times to imaginary
friends without ever reading a word of them.
Simon proudly walked us around his kingdom. It was lovely
to have a friend along. I have lots of new ones now, though
I worry that it has been at the expense of my father in an
unfair cosmic trade off. Some are as a result of his death,
you see, but I would far rather have him alive, given a choice.
It chokes me to think of him and then my heart beats and
aches so hard I think it may explode. It never does, of course,
that's the stuff of proper, dark fairytales.
We stopped at the poetry section and I noticed some with
Duke's imprint. It was hard to see Mum as having anything
to do with them although she edited many of the works on
display. I watched as she cocked her head to the side, trying;
to figure out the familiar emblem on the book spines, then
giving it up as a bad deal and skipping off to dawdle and
sing quietly among other shelves and genres.
Everything is changed, a lot of it for the better, but the
important things are still so wrong. The magnitude of the
change frightens me and I say as much to Simon. He says
I will cope, and I hope he is correct. He seems to have great
faith in me, or hope on my behalf.
I miss the stamping of our books when we are ready to
go. I did love the little card bearing the details that was
stored at the library while a book was out, and the random
way some of the date stamps were slanted or added to a
rogue new column on the card-holding insert inside the cover.
Still, a book is a book and that much hasn't changed, yet. It.
will, I am assured. It is changing even as we speak but we
will be of a generation able to ignore that if we choose. I
hope the public will always opt for handling an actual print
and paper book. I publish those now, after all. I love the
feel and look and smell of books at all stages of their existence.
Anyone who doesn't experience that is missing out, I think.
Another change from my childhood is that library
etiquette does not dictate absolute quiet any more. It
doesn't mean anyone is shouting, of course, except Mum
as she waves goodbye. A few readers actually wave back.
makes me think of Dan and the trains and then I am
floundering all over again.
Simon had watched a new drama on television where archaeologists
solved an ancient mystery within the allotted viewing
hour. The series was hokum but fiercely entertaining for all
that, and a bit of encouragement for him. He might have
liked to be a digger, once upon a time, but ancient records,
searching through fusty books, suited him better; the mind
game of the quest. He thought that historians had so much
more at their disposal to flesh out a story with, not just the
artefacts from a dig, chipped from prior use and buried in
the dirt of centuries. Historians were allowed to take leaps
that were not tied to a few specific items in a circumscribed
patch of earth. An historian had the whole world from which
to cull reason and fact, the greatest possible wealth of detail,
and therefore was potentially a better storyteller. The best
historians, he felt, were those who accurately conveyed their
story while making the necessary mindshift to bring it alive
with contemporary relevance and interest. A local historian,
of course, bore witness to the smaller lives spent in the bigger
picture. That was what Simon hoped to do.
St Melchior's was a parish on the outskirts of town which
not been totally outstripped by urban renewal. It had a fine
view of the surrounding countryside on two sides and a
very pretty seat from which to enjoy it, or so said the Vicar.
As it was presently dark, Simon took the man's word for it.
The church was neat and well tended and also attended,
according to the Vicar, who was a round man with a shiny
pate and pleasant demeanour. He looked a lot like the
church felt, Simon decided. The Vicar offered him tea,
which Simon politely refused, plugged in the two-bar electric heater and left him to it.
Simon liked to start some years before his target date to
get a feeling for the time and the names involved, allowing
his brain to click gradually into detective mode. It meant
that tonight he was looking for the ancestors of those
initialled FV and AC, should they be present in the register.
He patiently let his gloved finger run down the cast of the
town's characters laid before him, keeping a keen eye out
for initials that might be of interest. He'd been sitting at
his task half an hour when his spine began to tingle. He
found the first mentions of the family Kitty had unearthed,
the Vickers. Here was the marriage of Louise Martin to Albert Vickers in 1765. Simon calmly made his notes and
continued until he hit pay-dirt with the baptism of Fenella
in 1766. He had found Kitty's Nell. He steadied the page
and resisted the urge to whizz through the names and dates,
instead transcribing those facts that were pertinent and
hoping for more. He found the death of Louise recorded
in 1778 and her husband Albert followed her two years
later. There was no mention of Fenella's demise in the
register, even if she'd lived to be a hundred. Along the way
he also encountered one Anne Clarke, initials AC, but
removed her from the list of possibles as she had died an
infant.
Simon was not above getting his hands dirty which was
exactly what he found himself doing the following morning
before work. The graveyard attached to St Melchior's dated
back to the seventeenth century and, like the church, was
pleasant and well kept. He saw that the Vicar had not lied
about the view. The outer reaches of the small plot were
those holding the most ancient remains. Subsidence had left
its mark over the years so stones and markers were askew
in the sunken earth. He began with the graves most easily
accessible in order to inspect names and dates, but couldn't
find the Vickerses' plot. Acid rain and the elements had
sloughed the lettering from most of the ancient markers. He
had to resort to rubbings of the stones to read some of those
most worn, each charcoaled stroke adding to the tale of a
citizen long gone, remembered now only by a stranger
looking for someone else. Here were the basic details of life
and death, the rest of their story consigned to oblivion. He
read of Caleb Hough who departed this life 12 June 1807,
aged 15. He met relicts and the stillborn, and Zarius Lovelace
who went to God aged 19 hours. Simon knew his statistics:
in 1800, two out of every five children born alive died
before they reached the age of five. Sabina Willbond, who
died in year 20 of her age', had a headstone with a couplet
warning:
Be humble mortals, learn your doom;
To this cold bed, you all must come.

Simon's hands and face were frozen by the time he located
Louise and Albert and two of their sons, Uriah and Jacob,
but there was no sign or mention of Nell. It was unlikely
she had a grave here all to herself but he checked the rest
of the stones before giving up and making for work. He was
an hour late and frigid with the cold. Still, he had found
some useful information and was eager to tell the others.

The light is on in Dan's allotment shed as I trudge to the
station on my way to work in Norwich. The morning is dull
and grey and the light shines jauntily through the little
windows. The shed looks so friendly and inviting, I stand to
consider my options even though I know I should walk on.
I decide to creep closer, I don't exactly know why; every
shred of reason is screaming at me not to. He is inside,
puttering about. I can hear his shuffles and the odd, small
cough against the cold morning. In the old days I would have joined him, in the days when that was normal for us.
I am not sure what normal is any more and am not the person to ask about it, I daresay. Normal for me is a strange
place that most other people will never know, with a ghost *
mother and a house full of Post-it instructions. I have no
instructions for the here and now. For one insane moment
I think about turning the handle and going in. Instead,
I round the corner and press myself flat against the back wall,
to be as close to Dan as I can allow myself now.
This is probably just as insane a move as the alternative
I quashed. I try to imagine what he feels like. It isn't that
difficult because I know his body as well as my own. I hear
him drop something and swear, and just as I am smiling I
hear a woman's laugh. It is Donna. I start back, stung. He
has brought her here, to this place that used to be ours. My
mind sharply dismisses the perceived hurt. Of course he has
brought her here: it proves to her that she belongs with him.
It proves that to us all. And, irrationally, I also wonder why
he is not at work. I have removed myself from that part of
our life, too, so I don't know the answers to even the simplest
things now. This is as it should be but it hurts all the same.
I am shocked by my own foolishness. I really thought I
was past such idiocy. I stumble away, desperately careful to
remain silent. I am a grubby spy and detest myself for it. I
am light headed with the notion of my narrow escape from
disaster. What if they had seen me? How would that have
seemed? I will not allow myself to come so close to ruining
things, ever again. I am done with that life. I have to be.
Still it is difficult for me to breathe and I don't want to look
anyone else in the eye for the rest of my journey.
Duke's is my refuge. It is a new world where I am almost
reinvented. I am amazed by the stimulation I find here, every
day. It is so different from my job in the station at Pennick.
Here there are creative decisions to be made that are more
than what colour the walls should be painted and it we can
afford new shelves.
I find it is easiest to call myself Kitty Fulton Duke, as
hard as I resisted it once, as this announces me to my new
business colleagues without too much explanation. It's very
posh-sounding and I have to resist giggling at the pretension
of it, the ridiculous double-barrelled sound. I am not
prepared to lose any part of it, however, as that would mean
denying either Mum or Dad which is not on, as far I am
concerned.
I speak on the telephone to an American who calls me
'Miss Dook'. He is the first American I have spoken to over
the phone, though I must surely have helped some with
timetable information in my day. It is such a simple 'first' to
happen to me at my age that I am slightly shocked by it. I
have to get over that sharpish as he wants to talk about work
we are to co-publish. He uses words like 'implacability' and
'per se' and I'm not totally sure I understand them. He's in
love with the phrase 'the human condition' and also
'Beckettian sensibilities', which I take to mean minimalism
and despair.
When I check that with Miss Marshall afterwards she
smiles happily and says, 'Yes, exactly.' To be honest, I don't
want to have to read all of Beckett to find out, I really do
prefer a good thriller. I like the sound of 'sensibilities', though,
and think I must cultivate some if I don't have them already.'
I murmur general light assent down the line to the American
and try to make that sound both quiet and enigmatic. It's
treacherous, actually. I don't want to overstretch myself and
use a term or phrase wrongly, thereby blowing my cover.
I find the call terrifying. The truth is, he knows the material
in question a lot better than I do, but he also loves it and
that's good. I hold on to that and get out the other end
with plausibility intact, I hope.
It's great to be able to talk to the others here about
Mum. They know her, of course, from when she was fully
May Fulton. She's not here with us today so I feel no guilt
about discussing her, whereas sometimes, at home, it's as
if I am discussing someone who isn't in the room even
when the new version of her is, and it's all very strange.
This distance is affording me an overview of her condition.
It's frightening because, if the disease follows regular
patterns, Mum's time is running out. She will never live to
be old. The cruelty of that fact is almost overwhelming and
I go out walking to pound off the depression that threatens
to overtake me. I am also putting off the conversation with
Miss Marshall about when we will clear Dad's house and
what is to be done with it in the long run. I feel as if I
don't have any 'long run' any more, just borrowed and
unreliable time.
Norwich is lighting up for Christmas. The shops have
colourful window displays to lure in customers. Glitter
twinkles and even the rain seems less intrusive as a result.
Normally, I love to browse. Normally, I adore the festive
lights of a town. I'd like to see coloured baubles in the trees
and windows all year round. But today I cannot settle my
mind.
I worn' that elderly travellers at the station may not be
cared for by anything more than a cranky ticket machine.
Chances are Margo is not a lot better, mind you, but still,
they need the chat and the help. I can't bear to think that
they'll be dismissed by her and then distressed if they miss
a connection. This leads me to think of Dad's distress as he
suffered his fatal heart attack. I can only hope he thought
it was indigestion as many people do. A doctor explained to
me it's usually very unlike the chest-clutching attack of
television medical dramas or the movies.
As upset as I am about all of these different things, I know
they are a deflection of sorts, though the station is at the
centre of my problem. I still see it and use it most days. I
cannot continue to skulk through like a criminal. I need to
talk to Dan about my official resignation and it is not something
that can be undertaken simply by letter. I will have to
face him and that is what I most dread. I need to make that
clean break, that act of closure, so we can both walk away
with dignity. From here, it looks like the hardest thing ever
to tackle but it must be dealt with. Otherwise I will never
truly move on and neither will Donna and Dan.

Kitty drafted a letter, worrying over it for the whole afternoon.
She picked up the phone and dialled Pennick station.
Dan was not available, Margo said, but she could leave a
message. Ask him to call - could Margo make doubly sure
he got that? The sigh from the other end of the line was all the response Kitty got and the call ended with what
sounded like Margo hanging up. Kitty decided to text Dan
with the message, too, having little faith in her replacement
by now. She asked if they might meet later that day, when
she was on her way home from Norwich. His answer was
prompt and by text also, naming a time. Kitty felt sick with
apprehension about the meeting, thinking even the message
about it looked sinister on the screen of her mobile. The
minutes ticked ominously by. Miss Marshall sensed her
mood.
This is about more than leaving the old job, isn't it?'
Kitty nodded miserably. I'm cutting the ties of a lifetime,
really. And the worst of it, for me, is that I want to cut them
but that makes me feel like I'm betraying all involved. I'm
very mixed up about it.'
If Marie Marshall was puzzled she didn't show it. 'You
must move on. It will be the best thing in the long run.'
The long run, the thing Kitty felt she didn't have but
apparently did. There was a whole future out there for her
to discover. To ignore that would be an unconscionable waste.
She knew all of this but it didn't make it any less daunting.
'Its almost out of your hands, if you want to think of it
that way,' Miss Marshall continued. 'Your father's death has
given you a new course to pursue, should you choose to.
I think you should, even if it's not my place to say that. Make
him proud.'
None of this lifted Kitty's mood of dread and the afternoon
trailed miserably by. The train journey home was equally
interminable but she relished the delays. She opted to stand
in case sitting allowed her to curl up and deliberately miss
her stop. She knew Dan would guess which train she would
arrive on. It gave him the advantage, she decided. Not that
this was a competition. How would he play things? Would
he see the train coming down the tracks and go to the office
to wait or meet her on the platform. She hoped for the
office; anything else cast her too much as Celia Johnson in Brief Encounter, and she didn't want to get sentimental or
sloppy. There had been enough of that to fill a few lifetimes.
Dan was on the platform and waved to her as she arrived.
Kitty was saved from greeting him with more than a hand
waggle by a passenger on crutches, needing assistance. As
Dan helped the man, Kitty stood by the door to the office
and was glad to see Margo still on duty inside. Each precious
second spent acclimatising was helping her to keep calm.
Kitty looked at her father's watch and saw that Margo would
soon be knocking off. She willed Dan to come over now so
that she might get through the business of leaving and go
while they were still in company.
'How is Norwich?' he asked, as he ushered her into the
overheated office. It smelled of stale coffee and hard
boiled egg.
'Fine. Odd. A challenge.'
Margo barely acknowledged her, preferring to bang some
stationery around the desk before grabbing her bag and
leaving. She barely said goodbye to either of them. It made
Kitty feel guilty for something she hadn't done and she
resented the girl for it. Dan shrugged as if to say, Issues,
ignore her.
'I presume you're here to hand in your letter of resignation?'
'Well, yes.'
'I've been expecting as much. We'll all be sorry to lose
you, Kitty, myself most of all.'
She was afraid then of breaking down and fudging her
exit. She buried herself in her handbag to find the letter
she'd written earlier. Why did she have so much junk in
there? She swept aside loose items of makeup and a hairbrush.
There was a diary, pens, some bills, her umbrella,
a purse, perfume, the evening paper, and several half
empty packets of gum. Her keys rattled, underscoring the
chaos. Finally she located the envelope and put it on the
desk. She couldn't risk any physical contact that might
occur if she handed it to Dan, she felt too precariously
balanced. He did, too, she guessed, standing with his arms
tightly folded for protection.
'I don't know how much time you'd like me to work out,'
she said.
'Don't worry, that won't be necessary'.'
She was grateful for his understanding and restraint but
wary of showing any emotion. It wasn't him she was most
worried about here but herself. If she allowed her resolve
to melt she would be the one to ruin this perfect leavetaking.
The simplicity of it was unexpected and threatened to wrong
foot her.
"We'll all miss you,' Dan said, 'especially me.' He looked
down at his working boots, encrusted with the dirt of his
day. 'Thank you, Kitty. For everything.'
'Thank you, Dan. Really. It has been a wonderful time
but we need to move on.'
'We do.'
'Goodbye.'
There would be no handshake. They had never in their
lives done that, not even at her father's funeral. Then, he
had lightly touched her forearm in sympathy as she longed
for him to envelop her and make her safe and able again.
Donna had nodded and scowled her condolences. This stilted
little scene had gone unnoticed by all but the three of them
in the confusion of mourners. As huddled together as they
might have seemed, they could not have been further apart.
The Three Amigos had come unstuck.
There was nothing more to say and nothing further to
hold her at the station. Kitty practically ran through the door
and out into the cold Pennick evening. And what she felt
then was not the sorrow she'd expected, but relief. She was
free.
Exhilaration rushes through me like a drug in my bloodstream.
I am high on the adrenaline of my straightforward
exit and slightly worried that I seem to want to sing from
the mountaintops in the manner of Maria in The Sound of
Music. Pennick's flatness would save me from part of that
scenario and I know I am spectacle enough without bursting
into tuneless song. The trouble is, I am so grateful to Dan
for his unfussy handling of my leavetaking that I am in
danger of falling in love with him all over again. I haven't
yet fallen out of love with him, I suppose, but I must ignore
that and hope that time will dim it as it has so many other
things. I step gaily along the pathway by the allotments,
heedless of the drizzle and cold. My mind throws up the
odd warning about pride and a fall but I don't care. I fret
that I have no one to tell about this. Then . . . Simon, I
think, he'll understand. I'll call him when I get home.
There is no need to phone Simon because he is sitting at
our table drinking tea with Benny, who has Roly on his knee
and looks as happy as I feel. Mum is playing perfect hostess.
There is water in the milk jug and crackers on a plate instead
of biscuits but she has done well.
'Ah, here's that nice girl who helps around the place,' she
tells them, then turns to me. 'I'll let you do the introductions
yourself, dear.'
I'm just thrilled she's properly dressed and not sharing
the mysteries of her incontinence pants with two relative
strangers who might not be ready just yet for that sort of
frankness in their lives. She busies herself in the kitchen
again and returns with a decanted tin of cat food, which
she smears generously on to the crackers. Roly now looks
very interested in the snack.
'Mum, you'll spoil your appetite for dinner if you eat
anything now.' I wrestle the plate from her. 'Would anyone
like a glass of wine, or is it too early?'
'Wine,' Mum says. 'I think I like that. Do I?'
I'll join you,' Simon says, but Benny looks uncomfortable.
'I'm teetotal,' he explains. 'Never even wanted to try it,
to tell you the truth. Too many alcoholics in my family. Best
avoided, I always thought.' He's stricken that he might have
given offence and quickly adds, 'For me. Best avoided for
me, you understand.'
I pour the drinks but it is Benny, on his third cup of tea,
who gets talkative. I've been over the allotments,' he reports.
'Helping Jed out. Enjoying it, too. He's got good stories, you
know.'
I am not the only one forging new relationships. This
thought and the wine give me a further warm glow. I am
in love with life. I'll even let old Alzheimer's off the hook
for the evening, as long as it doesn't upset my mother or
cause her to look foolish. I have enough foolishness for
us both now, grinning as I still am and giggling silently
about the sheer range of possibilities open to me at last.
I wonder, idly, if I have been unhappy much longer than I
ever knew?
Simon smiles at my good humour. 'You are elated,' he says.
'I am unleashed,' I tell him.
'Should I be afraid?'
'Oh, yes, I think so.'
'Good.'
We both think that worth drinking to. The laws of gravity
dictate we all end up in the dirt, so the bottom line is this
euphoria can't last. But, while it does, I will enjoy it fully.
'I miss the two of you,' Benny tells Roly and me. He's like
a kid whose parents have separated. When he gets up to go
to work, I make him promise he'll visit again. He says he
will and I believe him.
Simon offers to cook and it looks like there'll be a second
bottle of wine opened tonight. The Town Librarian is
becoming quite the regular at 15, The Cottages.
'I like having a man about the place,' Mum says. 'Will you
be coming every day?'
'I will if you'd like that,' Simon replies.
She's content, which is the main thing, even if she thinks
he's one of the new carers. I see no harm in that. He's done
his share of caring for us, in fairness.
I like to see him work the kitchen. He has a lovely slicing
action with the big knife I rescue from a locked cutler)'
drawer for him.
'Can I offer you an apron?' I ask.
I'll wear one if it'll give you a thrill, Kitty,' he says, without
missing a beat in his dicing.
I feel weird about that, in a really good way. I laugh. I
suspect he's flirting with me but I could be mistaken. Its
not something that ever happens to me so I'm probably
misreading the situation.
I describe my week and adventures, without dwelling on
my final exit from the station. I think Simon knows its larger
significance without being told. He says he can feel my joy
and I'm happy about that. It's nice to be able to spread it
around. Mum is smiling too and I really don't care why, just
as long as she's enjoying herself. The aim of my life is to
make her comfortable, safe and happy. It's my turn to care
for her as she has for me for so long. This is the indentured
service owed to family and I am determined to give it my
all and acquit myself well. Besides, she is also my best friend.
Out of nowhere, I begin to cry. I have hit the earth quicker
than anticipated. I blub on and tell them both it's because
I am so happy. And I am. I am so damned happy. Roly climbs
on to my knee and I tell him I love him. I love the three of
them. I tell them that, a number of times. I am so lucky. I
am so happy. I am so drunk.
SEVENTEEN

Its hard to describe the suffering. I can barely open my eyes,
though it is still dark when I wake, as these winter mornings
always are, so it is not the light that hurts but a more
profound pain trapped inside me. It takes a long time to
summon the ability to raise my head from the pillow then
follow it with my body and finally get out of the bed. Just
standing upright is a challenge. I begin to move slowly. Every
step generates a seismic and nauseating shudder. I cannot
breathe without wanting to retch, and at times I do. Happily,
if that's the word to use, these are dryish and don't make
too much mess. I have to sit on a step halfway down the
stairs to allow the nausea to recede.
I very very gently knock back fizzy painkillers and fully
expect them to come back up again so I sit very, very still
in the armchair till that danger is past. Roly is intrigued but
not enough to interfere with me and for this I am thankful.
My hand is able to rub his head without involving the rest
of me. There is one unexpected bonus to the ghastliness: I
am so hungover I don't feel low; this pain is too great to
allow for the subtlety of depression.
Eventually the agony is numbed enough for me to deal
with Mum's ablutions and breakfast before I hand her over
to Hannah. My neighbour laughs when she sees me. Mum
joins her and says, 'Isn't she a terrible sight altogether?'
She's right, I am. 'The demon drink,' Mum says, shaking
her head and laughing some more. She doesn't remember
last night so it must be so obvious what's wrong with me
even the addled can tell. I am tremulous from the poison
still racing around my beleaguered body and move like a
newborn foal.
I don't know how I manage it but I get to work without
any disaster of note. There are several incidents of
misjudging the depth and width of puddles and some
bumping into parked cars and rubbish bins. I may still be
somewhat drunk. I get to the door of Duke's and it is Marie's
turn to laugh, which she does. 'I take it your mission
yesterday went well,' she remarks, and I admit that it did.
Too well. 'I was feeling as free as Adam and Eve in the
Garden of Eden,' I tell her, 'and made as poor a call.' She
brews me a milky, decaffeinated coffee from freshly ground
beans and adds a little sugar. It is delicious and I feel
compelled to say, 'I love you, Ms M.'
I decide to use my numbed condition to push through
the other big thing I have been avoiding. I arrange to clear
my fathers house. The pain in my head is so searing that
any grief associated with this step is overshadowed. It is the
perfect moment to tackle the unpalatable. I remember some
government underling getting fired for suggesting a disaster
day is a good one to leak and lose other bad news, and then
making good on that theory. With everything around me
looking vague and out of focus, even my reflection in the
mirror, I ask Marie to accompany me this coming weekend
and arrange for Simon and Benny to be on call too should
any big items need to be moved. Between the retching and the
headache, the day I have long postponed is chosen, noted
and will have to be dealt with. Too many people now know
about it and would have to be cancelled and lied to if I chickened
out. One other thing has come of this: I have begun
to call Marie by her first name.
We have brought out a book of Christmas poems for the
seasonal market and the local radio station wants to do an
interview with me. Today. I try to wriggle off the hook.
'Does it have to be today?' I wheedle. 'Tomorrow would
be so much better.'
No, they cannot do it tomorrow, yes, it has to be today.
'To be honest with you, Marie Marshall here at the firm
is the expert on this book. She's the one you really want.'
The telephone receiver is digging painfully into the side of
my pounding head.
No, Miss Marshall won't do. They want the new young
face of the firm. I'd like to point out that it's radio and my
face won't be on show, but I haven't got the strength. This
is great publicity and I cannot turn it down.
I am not shy of strangers, thanks to working in a train
station, but I am quaking to think the general public will
listen in and expect me to be interesting. I have nothing to
say, probably never had. I feel as if I am floating in a surreal
dream where colours are too bright and sounds too loud and
tastes too magnified. But, as terrified as I am about speaking
to a faceless public, even that cannot hurt as much as this
hangover. I'm actually lucky it's radio and no one can see
the wreck that once was Kitty' Fulton. The listeners are about
to be introduced to Ms Katherine Fulton Duke of the distinguished
Norwich publishing firm. May the Lord have
mercy on her pickled soul.

It all passes in a blur of introductions to the studio staff, the
refusal of a cup of tea, the grateful acceptance of ice-cold
water, and entry into the muggy booth. The atmosphere and
odour in the padded cell are a lot like the station office on
a day when the heating is on full blast and Roly's food is on
the turn. I clutch the hardback book and remember Marie
said to mention the name as much as possible. 'Yule be glad
you did,' she joked.
I am asked to read out a poem and choose a short comic
one about our famous Norfolk turkeys. I am certain I read
it badly but the interviewer is smiling and begins to read out
texts and emails people send in praising the book. One is
from someone with the initials MM and I suspect that has
come from our office. I say nothing to alert the good folk
of the county and can see how easily big corporations could
fall into similar phone fixing. It makes me chuckle but I have
a dangerous moment of bile-churn and remain as still as
possible thereafter. We chat about other titles on our list
and, when asked about our future plans, I mutter about some
academic texts, the next Harry Higgins collection, and
then announce that I am working with some local historians
on a study of the Napoleonic Wars and their effect on
Pennick, my hometown. As Mum might say, 'Sweet holy
Mary, mother of the divine Jesus.'
What's possessed me?
There is a flood of messages wondering when that book
will be out and I have to backtrack and stress that it's
merely on-going work at present. Suddenly I am out of
there and on to the freezing street, clutching a piece of
paper with the presenter's mobile number on it. He wants
me to call him so we can go for a drink sometime. How
did all that happen?
Back at the office the company of three have gathered to
congratulate me on my turn. We find we are all very curious
about the Pennick book. 'I guess I'll have to make good on
it now,' I say.
'Best to,' says Marie. 'The advance word of mouth is very
good.'
I crack open a bottle of Chablis because I need a cure
and we appear to have much to celebrate. The strangest
thing is that I now feel attuned here. This is my job, this is
my place, these are my people. I wonder if the Triffid enjoys
a glass of vino at all? The phone begins to ring and Marie
starts to take orders for the Christmas poetry collection and
to field enquiries about the upcoming historical study of
Pennick in the early-nineteenth century.

Simon sat with Mona Fletcher listening to Kitty on the radio.
He felt a bit heated by the presenters obvious flirting. If
the man called her attractive or beautiful once more, in those
cloyingly honeyed tones of his, Simon was going to have to
ring in to interrupt the conversation. He hoped the man's
voice didn't match his appearance and that he was ugly as
sin. When the surprising announcement of the local history
book came, he and Mona both gasped at the same time and
quickly looked to check if the other had already known of
the plan. Clearly not.
'It seems we have a lot of work to do,' Simon said.
'And contracts to sign. Marvellous. I've always fancied
seeing my name on the spine of a good book, so we'd better
make it one. Meeting, tonight, Kitty's house. I don't think
she can argue about that after dropping a bombshell.'
Kitty answered her mobile, saying, 'I have become a lush
so forgive any slurring. I am drinking again, but only to dull
the pain of my hangover. Do I need to apologise for anything
I may have said or done last night?'
'Sadly, no. Well done on the radio interview. Was it just
me or was that host a bit smarmy?'
'Oh, I thought he was a lovely man. Actually, he gave me his
number so I imagine he has a book in a drawer somewhere that
he wants me to consider. It all comes with the territory now.'
Simon eased up when he realised how unaware Kitty had
remained of the presenters intentions. 'It certainly made me
want to read the book,' he said. 'Or should that be books?'
He was laughing now.
Kitty joined him. 'I don't know what came over me. Why
in the world did I announce it? I had no right to do that
without consulting you and Mona but it just came out of my
mouth. My brain has been slightly on hold all day. I was
rash, I know, but I do think it's a good idea. Shall we?'
'Oh, yes. Besides, I don't think there's any choice in the
matter now. I listened with Mona and she's fired up to the
point of being scary -- eleven on a scale of one to ten, I'd
say. I don't think you could back out even if you wanted to.'
"Which I do not.'
'Just as well, because she has called a meeting of the
Council of Three tonight at your house to discuss it.'
I'd best switch to coffee immediately'
And I need to find Nelly Vickers, Simon thought as he
hung up.

I look at my local train station with new eyes. It's a ramshackle
lean-to of a place, but I've always known that. It hasn't seen
much in the way of architectural upgrade since it was built
in the late-nineteenth century when it would have been bijou
but worthy. There are modern painted signs and some that
light up, none of which do much to flatter the building. It
could do with a little cafe-cum-shop. I do worry that automatic
beverage machine will poison a diabetic some day
because there's no warning about just how sweet the brew it
spits out is. And it does spit. Al Faber runs a newspaper stand
in the morning for a few hours but he's threatening to retire
and there is no heir apparent. Dan should really look at
sprucing the place up. I won't be the one to tell him that,
necessarily, but I am sure there are many ways of getting the
message to him.
I probably look like I'm loitering, fondly remembering my
time here, but I am not, or not in any meaningful way at
least. I feel a presence hovering and when I look over my
shoulder Donna is standing by an iron pillar watching me.
I hope she doesn't think I'm waiting for Dan.
'You're out of here then,' she says.
'Yes. I'm seeing about running Dad's business.'
'Heard you on the radio.'
I wait. It's the best way with Donna.
'He was the only dad in the area didn't try to feel my
tits.'
'Really?' I am shocked. It had never occurred to me that
it might be on any parent's agenda. No one's father tried to
grope me. I must have been one dull girl.
'Quite the gentleman. Wondered if he was gay for a while,
be honest with you, but he had manners was all, and a bit
of respect. I liked that.'
This is the most I've heard from her in a long, long time. It's a fairly one-sided conversation but it's communication
' and I won't care if she starts to swap recipes as long as she's talking to me. It's more than I deserve.
'How's your mum?'
'Escaping, bit by bit.'
. This makes her smile, just the tiniest bit. 'Never thought
she'd be the one to leave.'
I return the smile, but bigger. 'Yeah, who knew?'
Donna is unafraid to hold my gaze. She really knows how
to put it up to a person.
'Congratulations on the news,' I say.
She holds her bump, tenderly, and says, 'Thanks. Dan and
me are delighted. Made up.'

Made up: yes, they are. I can't put it off any longer.
'I'm sorry, Donna.' There's not a lot more I can saw to
cover what needs to be acknowledged between us.
She doesn't grant forgiveness and I don't expect
her to. The best I can hope is that, in time, she'll mellow.
She can never forget.

The local Historical Society teamed up with the Women's
Institute about ten years ago to make a record of the really
ancient gravestones in the area,' Mona told Kitty.
'We had a hunt through what they have but we can't find
Nelly,' Simon added.
Kitty sighed, disappointed.
'However,' he continued, 'part of St Melchior's graveyard
was decommissioned to become part of the neighbouring
housing estate.'
'Mock-Tudor, ghastly,' Mona interjected.
'The poor souls resting in the decommissioned area were
moved to what's now the municipal cemetery.'
'That graveyard has been in use from the eighteen
hundreds as a secular burying place so our lass might be
there anyhow, even if she's not one of the ones who got
replanted.' Mona caught sight of their expressions. 'Well,
whatever they call transferring human remains.'
'Reburial?' Kitty said.
They have been reinterred,' Simon tried.
'All right, all right, point taken.'
'I don't suppose the WI made a study of that graveyard?'
Kitty asked.
"Wouldn't you know it, no,' Mona said. 'I suppose we all thought
it wasn't as interesting or old as the church ones, but it is.'
'We're also going to check the records of the Monroe
family's burials as Fenella worked for them,' Simon offered.
Kitty thought about it. 'But what if Nelly left Pennick?
What if she's not buried here?'
'That's another possibility,' Simon agreed. 'And then, there
is no guarantee we'll ever find her.'
'I hate to bring us back to basics,' Mona said, 'but can
we also bear in mind that the ship may not be anything
to do with Nelly and may have two sets of French initials

on it'
They all sighed at that.
'I have been in contact with the French Military,' Mona
continued. 'They've put me on to a very nice chap who's
interested in this, one of their historians. Between us, we
might get together a definitive list of who was stationed here
and what happened to them ... or as far as it can ever be
definitive at this late stage. I told him we are particularly
interested in Antoine Chaubert and Francois Villeneuve. We
want to know about them all, what with this book we're
doing, but it would be nice to have a singular story to hang
it round.'
Mona was wearing a flowing scarf tonight, which Simon
suspected was a writerly affectation. She'd have him in a
cravat next if he wasn't careful.
'I'd hate to think we might not find them,' Kitty said.
'Unfortunately, it's a very real possibility,' Simon admitted.
The little boat sat on the table before them as it always
did at their meetings.
"Who are your people?' Kitty asked it.

I we always enjoyed a walk through a graveyard. I find cemeteries
calm places to be, unless you're attending a funeral
With all of the raw sorrow that brings. I like the regular lines
of the layout and visiting the people I have known. My father
is now in Pennick Municipal Cemetery so any visit, from
here on out, is always going to be horribly personal. I take
Mum along, though we are not just here to visit Dad. We
are going to look for Nelly too.
We're wrapped up well against the cold, which is bitter
according to Mum. It's funny to think of the weather as
having moods or vendettas that require it to be 'bitter' or
'soft'. There are other people scattered about today, heads
dipping as they pause to greet an old friend or relative. We
have not been here since the funeral and I feel guilty
about that. I really haven't been ready to visit and Mum is
oblivious to the situation again, which is partly a blessing.
It's too early to put up a headstone for him so Dad's
name and dates are still on a small wooden cross. It will be
six months before we can erect anything more substantial.
The cemetery staff told me we must wait for subsidence.
I know all too clearly that my father's remains are decomposing
under that soil and nature must be given a fair
chance to do what's natural in this first half-year. Its
unsavoury to dwell on it. I have to tell myself it's just his
mortal shell, he is long gone. I cannot imagine a time when
six months of this grief will have passed, but they will, as
sure as night follows day.
I clear the spent flowers and tell him what we've been
up to. I keep a hawk eye on Mum who is busy wandering
hither and yon without too much focus on the graveyard
or its inhabitants. I worry shell take flowers or items she
fancies from some of the more ornate arrangements people
have left to commemorate departed loved ones. Simon is
locating the areas we need to concentrate on for our Nelly
Vickers search. I think Dad would have been fascinated by
it all. I tell him I miss him and the words sound puny
compared with the rending in my chest. I let myself cry
when the tears come, devastated all over again to be without
my father, my dad, Daddy.
Mum comes back and asks where we're going next.
She's bored. I have a contingency plan and ring Val to
come and get her. He'll take her on his weekly supermarket
shop. She still loves a bit of retail therapy and her
happiness on a trip is easily ensured by a Mars bar. This
may be dodgy practice but it's true so I let myself off too
much wasted self-recrimination.
Simon joins me at the grave. 'It's hard when they go,' he
says.
I agree with him. We stand and look at my dad's final
resting place and the silence between us is comfortable.
There is a lot that I can share with this man, I find.
'Did you ever want brothers and sisters?' I finally ask him.
'From time to time I did, but not in any pitiful way.
I didn't long for a family. We moved around so much, I
would have liked someone my own age to moan with
about that. I wanted straightforward whingeing and
complaining about my sorry lot. Mum and Dad could
only justify the upheavals rationally. I think they secretly
felt guilty, so they wouldn't indulge me because it made
them feel bad too.'
'I have moments when I wish I had family back-up. All
out whingeing sounds good to me too.'
'You've got me for that now,' he says, simply, and I feel
I do.
I hook my arm through his and we go to get Mum for
the handover to Val. It goes so smoothly she doesn't even
look back as she leaves and I feel slightly hurt. Rich, I tell
myself, as I am the one offloading her for a few hours. At
the gate, Val turns back to wave. My face must have a
sorrowful expression on it because he makes Mum turn
around too and I can see that she's now arguing with him
about that. He raises his hands to heaven for me to see. I
know he doesn't really mind; it's all part of the May merrygoround.
'How long has that man been in love with you?' Simon
asks.
He doesn't miss much, I'll give him that.
'Forever, according to him. I love Val, too, just not the
way he'd like.'
I can't tell what Simon makes of that because he suddenly
gets all businesslike and steers us to our first target area,
for the hunt to begin in earnest. The modern section where
Dad lies gives way to more and more ornate backwaters.
The Victorians, in particular, loved their mausoleums and
monuments. There are a lot of huge crosses and weeping
angels. As we progress towards our first search area, the
stones grow plainer and the pathways less trodden.
We chat about the French prisoners. Simon tells me
they had a curfew of 5 p.m. in the winter months and 8 p.m.
in summer. If they wandered past their allotted mile from
the outer reaches of town, there was a reward of ten
shillings paid to whoever apprehended them. If they
stepped out of line, they were banged up in gaol. They
received a subsistence allowance from the British
Government, to pay for their food and lodgings. That really
surprises me. Senior officers were awarded one shilling
and sixpence a week, initially, with the junior officers on
one shilling and threepence. They complained that it wasn't
enough to meet the high cost of living in England and got
the French Admiralty to write letters on their behalf and
did actually win an increase.
I tell Simon I can hardly believe these men lived in
Pennick, however briefly.
'Not only that, I have a theory that the house on the corner
of Cross Street and High Street was decorated by French
soldiers.'
That stops me in my tracks.
'Have you ever noticed the plasterwork on the front of
the building? It's like a swirling vine. That's quite typical of
their work. There's some like it in North Tawton in Devon,
another Parole Town.'
This is Pennick we're talking about here. My nowhere of
a home town, a place no one but its inhabitants knows or
cares about, which is meant to have nothing of interest about
it. I say as much to Simon who looks at me with a mixture
of pity and disbelief.
'Kitty, Pennick is lovely. It's pretty, situated in a wonderful
part of the county and it's teeming with history. What's not
to love about it?'
This man is opening my eyes. I chance a fresh look
around but realise I'll be changing my opinion only a little
at a time.

The first delight for Simon was to be alone with Kitty, even
if they were in a graveyard. He had her all to himself. It was
astoundingly satisfying to watch her hoover up information
and see how it transformed her face. She had a poor outlook
on her hometown, though. He'd never lived anywhere long
enough to have one so he didn't quite understand that. To
have your roots in one place seemed very desirable to him,
and to have a shared story with others in a community. He
wondered if that's why history called to him as it did. Was
he trying to root himself more strongly in the past, so as to
know the feeling of homecoming? Was Pennick the town
where he belonged?
They began to study the stones in their allotted area. An
hour later Kitty let out a small yelp and summoned him. She
had found a marker with a French inscription. They stood
for a moment to calm themselves then they began to read
and translate the wording on the stone. Simon took a photograph of it for their records.

lei Repose he Corps de
Vincent he Stum
Natif de horient
hieut. Au 16 Regt de higne
Age de 33 ans
Decede le 10 Avril 1807
Requiescat in Pace

'A Breton,' Simon said. 'A lieutenant who died aged thirty
three. Rest in peace.'
Kitty had put her hand in his and he gave it a squeeze.
He always found the strangest mixture of ease and difficulty
in breathing when he was around her. At that moment, he
would not have traded places with any other person, alive
or dead. They had found a Frenchman and Simon was
holding Kitty Fulton's hand.
'We'll press on,' he said, reluctant to let go but wanting
to make the most of the light while they had it.
About twenty minutes later he came back to her side,
breathless, and asked her to look up.
'What do you see?' he asked.
'Graves, fields beyond, trees, grey sky. A woman wearing
what looks like a one-piece skiing outfit in an unforgiving purple.'
'Go back to the trees. What kind are they?'
'Some yew, an oak and a willow, I'd say from here.'
Simon began to walk quickly in the direction of the willow
she was pointing at. 'I think we've found another one,' lie
said.

I have to run to keep up. Simon is burbling about a theory
he has, how it may be nothing, and I am getting very excited
about what we might find. The stone is partly submerged
and it may be that the roots of the tree are responsible for
that. It is also old, or course, and the earth is subsiding as
it likes to do. Why has he targeted this grave above all the
others?
'Napoleon is buried on St Helena and his tomb is close
to the spring where his drinking water was taken from when
he was alive. This spring was surrounded by willow trees.
Hundreds of British and French army officers attended his
funeral. After the ceremony everyone took sprigs of those
willows with them, sometimes whole branches, as mementoes.
Later still, when British forces withdrew from the island,
a sergeant who had married a local woman was left behind
and appointed guardian of the tomb. He was a bit of an
entrepreneur and set up a small business cultivating willow
shoots to sell to visitors. He rooted them in old wine bottles,
filled with spring water and sealed. Several are known to
have made their way back to England and there is one in
Ashburton in Devon growing beside a French soldiers grave.
I'm hoping that this is planted here to mark something or
someone special, related to a parole prisoner.'
It is. We clear away the weeds that have grown about the
stone and try to read the inscription. It is badly worn so we
do a rubbing, and that is when we find her. This is the final
resting place of Fenella Vickers who died in childbirth in
1807, aged 19 years. We don't know how to celebrate. It
doesn't seem right to whoop and holler triumphantly by a
grave. It is a sombre moment, difficult to process fully. In
my mind I had given up any hope of locating her.
'I know its circumstantial,' Simon says, 'but I think Nelly
was involved with a Frenchman and I think he planted this
willow to watch over her, as its cousins did the Emperor.'
'The stone doesn't mention her baby,' I say. 'The child
may have lived.' I know the search for her offspring will be
high on our list from now. I cannot wait to tell Mona. We
have a sad and wonderful story to hang our book on.
'She died in childbirth, unmarried and possibly in disgrace,
which might explain why she is not buried with her
family.'
'Poor Nelly.'
It is getting dark now so we quickly record our findings
and start to make our way home. The ground is bumpy and
more treacherous in the waning light and we both stumble
about. We are just outside the gate, about to hit concrete
pathways again, when I miss a step up and fall over. I am
unhurt, just shaken. Simon helps me to my feet and waits
while I brush dirt off my coat. I look up when I am don
and we gaze into each other's eyes. I cannot look away and
I am sure he cannot either. I don't want to.
Something has changed, displaced the air around us
He reaches for me and I am willingly drawn into his arms. He
kisses me and I am breathless with how good it feels. It is
so gentle at first, and then passion mounts and it is as if we
have waited all our lives for this. When we break the embrace
we move together at speed to my house and, without words,
climb the stairs and fall into my room. I don't remember
clothes being removed, just Simon's hands and mouth on
me and mine on him and the ecstasy of it. I look into his
face and his lovely smile, which is all for me, and I feel whole
and so lucky that he found me. He kisses my lips, lightly
this time, and says, 'I love you, Kitty.'
EIGHTEEN

The man beside me is a miracle and I cannot sleep for
looking at him. He spends the night here often and instead
of becoming used to that we are still devouring one another.
I never thought I could give myself up so completely again.
There is a subtle sense of treachery in this invidious comparison
that I try not to dwell on. This is so much better because
Simon is all mine. I have not betrayed Dan, any more than
he did me. At the beginning there were times when Simon's
breath on my skin, or even his voice in my ear, were foreign
enough for me to start at the notion that I was cheating on
Dan, but that was ridiculous and I soon gave up thinking
that way.
What a wonderful thing it is. I feel as if I have blossomed.
There is a skip in my step and a confidence about me which
are astonishing and a relief. I was so worried all of the time;
now I have moments when I think I might just about get by,
that nothing too awful is happening every day beyond the
substantive issue of Mum's disease. I am more relaxed and
happy and I think Mum picks up on that. She has taken our
new situation in her stride and is perfectly content to have
Simon in the house. Roly is a bit put out that his place on
the bed is taken by a much larger male but he's dealing with
it in his way and is still lord of the sofa so one status quo is
maintained.
I don't discuss Mum with Simon. He knows that is a situation
he will have to roll with and that she is uppermost in
my priorities. What I feel for him is so different. If it lasts,
as I hope, it will have utter loyalty underpinning it also. I
suppose this is love, as I cannot think what else to call it,
how else to describe it. I pinch myself sometimes to check
that I haven't sunk into a delusion. Simon says he has never
felt this way, has never been so sure of the rightness of something.
It is such a gift when he tells me these things. He
wants to yell from the rooftops that we are together. He is
delighted with me. I feel so healthy, fit for my new challenges.
He is proud of me.
I don't want the household upset in any way. We are
trucking along as best we can. But I keep coming across the
social worker's list of residential homes in my bag and I feel
I must deal, at least in part, with all that it stands for. I make
an appointment to see Mr Bishop at the hospital but I go
alone to meet him. He is giving me ten minutes from his
lunch break and I am extremely grateful. There is mayhem
in Accident and Emergency and I see staff running and
calling out to one another. A bystander knowingly says, 'Work van incoming.' I can hear sirens in the distance, dashing the
broken to be mended. I wonder if the man who commented
is the equivalent of the train spotters at the station. Pregnant
teenagers smoke outside, oblivious to the cold and the poison
they're inhaling for two. They're sure they will live forever
and they are reproducing to prove it. Proud parents come
through the doors swinging tiny newborns in baskets and
car seats. A man attached to a drip sits in a wheelchair,
whistling the 'Toreador's Song' from Carmen. I make my
way indoors, along the familiar corridors, and take the turning
for the Department of the Mad and Bewildered.
Mr Bishop is eating a sandwich at his desk and consulting
vast folders of notes. He has another, sweating in its plastic
wrap, in case I want to join him but warns me it will taste
as disgusting as his own. 'Hospital food.' He shrugs. 'It's a
wonder any of us makes it out the door at the end of the
day.'
He tells me I look well and I know I do. I am glowing. I
don't explain why but the consultant is a savvy man and I
don't doubt he can guess a thing or two. He looks at the list
I have brought. It is not extensive, as few places want to
take someone like Mum.
'There are two here that are over-fond of medicating the
problem, in my opinion,' Mr Bishop says. 'I know you don't
want to take that route unless absolutely necessary, and I
agree with you and applaud the decision. I wish I had more
relatives like you.' There is a moment then when I see his
utter exhaustion and I fully expect him to slide off his chair
into a deep sleep. He shakes it off. 'How about I mark them
as if I were choosing one for myself?'
Thank you, Mr Bishop, that would be a great help. I won't
tell or show it to anyone, I promise.'
'You'd better not,' he says, and though he is laughing I
know he means it. 'And I do wish you'd call me Desmond.'
'Desmond,' I try for size. It feels strange, but it suits him.
'Mum's fine with me right now and I hope it doesn't come
to this at all, but I'm guessing it's like trying to get a kid into
a decent school: you have to have their name down from
conception.'
'Not unlike that,' Mr Bishop agrees. His eyes are a muddy,
humane brown. They make me believe there is nothing we
cannot achieve if we put our minds to it. 'With any luck you
will never have to face the situation,' he adds delicately.
We are not talking of a cure here, simply that Mum might
pass away before the worst ravages descend. I do not want
her to be humiliated by them, even if she remains unaware.
Was I wrong to call her back in from the sea that day in
Egypt? I did not let her go, on her own terms, as she'd
wanted me to. No, I would do the same again today. I am
still not ready to give her up.
'How will I know if it's time?' I ask, trying not to cry. This
is what I wanted to ask him all along. I don't want to miss
a sign and do her harm.
'Do you mean, to let her go into residential care?' he says.
'Or beyond?'
'Both.'
'Kitty, you will know,' he reassures me. 'You are the person
who most loves and cares for May and you are the one who
knows her best of all. You will not make any mistakes. Trust
yourself. She is extremely fortunate to have had you thus
far, and I was a lucky doctor the day you walked in that door
with my new patient. You have made my job easier by far.'
He doesn't have to say any of this and I cannot thank him
enough for doing so. I know he isn't allowed gifts but I leave
him a copy of the Christmas poems book, which both Mum
and I have signed. It seems so little to acknowledge what
he does for us, but it's all I have.

Simon didn't dare measure how happy he was. He had finally
found his life partner and they matched perfectly. It was as
if all of the living he had done to date had simply been to
prepare him for this moment when he could be with Kitty.
She didn't think him shy or odd as some had. She didn't ask
about his previous lovers. His life before wasn't an issue. He
was accepted into the little world of 15, The Cottages and
felt he had a family again.
Kitty talked him through the photographs labelled for
May's benefit, naming her ancestors as she went, laughing
at pictures of herself as a girl. May followed along, touching
the pictures, looking at the strangers who had once meant
something to her, when the world and everything in it was
hers to play for. Kitty showed Simon her vegetable plot, a
sacred place but one she now wanted to share with someone
else. One day, he went with her to the station to collect
the items she had left behind there. She was making her
clean break. A sullen Margo ignored the ringing phone and
told them Dan had advertised the post and she would not
be applying for it. As they left Kitty signed something out
of the Lost and Found book and took it to her allotment
where Simon helped her dig a hole on the very edge of
the area. She buried the padded envelope without ever
telling him what was in it. 'It's something I should have
dealt with a long time ago,' was all she said. He didn't pry.

'If you had come to Pennick even a year ago, I don't think
we would be together now,' I tell Simon. I have been thinking
a lot about this. 'I wouldn't have been at a point where I
needed change as much as I have done in these last months.
In spite of what was happening to Mum, I had a system
going and I thought I was doing okay. I know now the system
was dysfunctional, probably did then too, but it was all I
knew and I had no ambition beyond that.'
'Strange for me as I never would have said timing was my
greatest strength,' Simon admits.
'You should talk to Cameron at the office about that, it's
his hobby horse.'
We are going to Norwich to make a start on clearing Dad's
house. I regard it as a visit to him and try not to think of
the parting it really represents. Mum is looking out of the
carriage window at the rain sleeting down.
'The sea will be cold today,' she says.
We're not going for a swim.' I tell her, again. 'We are going
to tidy up Stephens house and collect some things for you.'
I do think she'll want some of Dad's things, even if their
significance is lost on her. She still appreciates something
pretty to look at and any other unconscious attraction she
has to it is a bonus and doesn't bother her unduly. The disease
gives her a freedom that is sometimes almost enviable.
'Says here blackcurrants can help the prevention of
Alzheimer's,' Simon reports from his newspaper.
'Prevent is a big word,' I observe. 'Too late for us. The
saddest thing I ever read was about a study done in a convent.
One of the nuns had Alzheimer's and her greatest worry was
that she'd forget God.'
'God won't forget her,' Mum says, and goes back to drawing
faces in the condensation on the window.
It's impossible to say if she means this as a good or bad
thing, this God who forgets nothing and no one. I think of
Donna. I am no longer so confident. I dread seeing Dad's
house, a reminder of the past and how I must deal with it
in order to move on. Mum has no such worries.

We stand in Dad's main living area wondering where to
start. Simon advises that I see this as a reconnaissance
mission and I think he's right. There is no hurry* to obliterate
my father's presence from this place. In fact, it may be
nice to become reacquainted with some of his things. Mum
told me that when she first met my father: 'He had a lounge
and a linen cupboard, so I knew he was a Protestant. That
fact alone made me love him from the off, because I knew
it would drive your grandmother mental. She was never a
religious type, but in her narrow mind Protestant meant
Brit and that was a pejorative term.'
Mum took no prisoners with me when it came to words,
and if I didn't understand something she sent me to the
dictionary to look it up. I think that's why my vocabulary is
as good as it is, and not a whole lot to do with my formal
education at school.
'I don't think she ever thought through why that might
or might not be a bad thing. I cannot abide pat acceptance
of old myths or lazy thinking. It engenders prejudice, and
nothing that comes of that can be a good thing.' Mum again,
in the good old days. Today she is merrily ringing a bell she's
found on a sideboard. Inside that older woman is a young
girl I have met only recently. I'm hoping she wants to be
my friend.
I keep stopping to read notes that Dad's left and poke
through drawers full of correspondence. I know it will take
me an age to get through everything here, and that's a
comfort. I would hate to think his life's possessions could be
swiftly disposed of. There is an album of photographs that
is too tempting to leave unopened so Simon makes tea and
we sit down to view the contents. There is a series I haven't
seen before but they match a framed photo of me that is
hanging on a wall. I don't remember it being taken. I am
three or four years old, standing on some stone steps in a
pretty, frilled dress. The story is that I burst into tears when
I first saw the photograph and wanted to know where
everyone else was. I didn't want to be alone. I thought I had
been abandoned in that unremembered time.
Now I see it comes from a whole set taken on that same
day. My mother and father pose on the steps too, in their
best clothes, eyes squinted against the sun. Sometimes it's
just Mum and Dad, sometimes I am between them. I look
at the back of one and see that Dad has marked it 'Register
Office'. This then was their wedding day and I was there.
Mum is not the only one with a dodgy memory. I stare at
the picture hard for a long time, willing it to speak to me,
and still it unlocks nothing. It was obviously not an important
day in my life, though it was in theirs.
I show one of them to Mum and wait for a reaction. 'Pink
dress,' she says, and that is all.

Mona came to the meeting bearing many treasures. She was
clearly chuffed with herself. Her flowing scarf was of a
becoming amber hue and Simon couldn't help but comment
on it. He got a 'This old thing' and the suspicion of a blush.
'I have found a Monroe,' she announced. 'Her name is
Audrey and she is a direct descendant of the Dr Monroe we
are interested in. Not only that, she has primary' source material.
I spoke to her over the phone and, although she sounds
frail, her mind is alert. She says she has very old diaries that
she's certain go back to the eighteen hundreds. They're in
storage in a bank vault somewhere and she'll call them up
for us. It seems Nelly's Dr Monroe was an inveterate record
keeper, bless his woollen socks. Audrey is very ancient and
in a private nursing home outside Bishop's Cross. I think a
visit may be in order.'
Kitty immediately volunteered to accompany her, as she
also wanted to see how an institution of that sort might look
and be run.
That's not all.' Mona brandished a letter. The French
have been in touch with news of Antoine Chaubert. He
was killed in battle in 1815. They have no further data at
the moment but my new best friend over there, lovely man
named Jean Marc de Beamier, is on the trail. He's as hooked
as we are.' She was fanning herself with the letter now and
both Simon and Kitty fancied it was to do with the living
man behind the correspondence rather than the dead
soldier.

Audrey Monroe's retirement home had once been a grand
mansion in the Palladian style. It still had the proportions
and facade to announce that, and any additions had been
tastefully tucked away behind, at the business end of the
beautiful building. The staff was smartly uniformed and the
house smelled fresh.
'I bet it costs a bomb to stay here,' Mona commented as
they were led to Miss Monroe's suite. Kitty thought it bore
more resemblance to a hotel than any of the public nursing
homes she'd encountered to date.
The lady who greeted them admitted to being ninety
seven years of age. 'Hoping to hit the ton, as the young folk
now put it,' she said. She seemed hale enough to do so, in
her rickety way. She was a fragile arrangement of spindly
limbs and wrinkles, with darting active eyes and an air of
curiosity. 'And you brought me a lovely man. How kind.'
Simon preened. Audrey Monroe knew how to work a
room.
Kitty poured the tea their hostess had laid on and they
set out to explain their research, saying they were interested
in learning more about a servant called Fenella Vickers who
had once worked for the Monroe family.
'Obviously I don't know much about that time, old as I
am. The good doctor would have been about five generations
before me. I have racked my brains for anything that
might have descended through the family as gossip, but
nothing has cropped up as yet. The noggin is not what it
once was. So I have put out a call to my younger brother
Antoine. He's the baby of the family, a mere whippersnapper
of eighty-two.' She took in their astonished faces. 'Have I
said something wrong?' she asked.
'Antoine?' Kitty repeated.
'Yes, it's an old family name. Traditionally, the youngest
son is called that, though its sometimes hard to guess which
boy will be the last, don't you think?' She laughed at the
eccentric family trait.

I have had the turkey on since eight and its doing nicely.
Mum, Simon, Roly and I had a breakfast of scrambled eggs
and smoked salmon, with Buck's Fizz for the humans and
some special cat milk for Roly. The fire is blazing and Mum
is playing her favourite Christmas jingles on the stereo. She
is bursting to open the gifts under,the tree but knows she
has to wait until the others arrive. It is my first Christmas
catering for more than three and I am a bag of nerves about
the food. Simon is helping, when I let him, and will serve
the meal when we are ready to sit down. He stands behind
me as I prepare Brussels sprouts I grew at the allotment.
My own potatoes, carrots and parsnips from the plot are
already in the oven. Simon puts his hands on my waist and
leans in to whisper, 'I know what I'd like for lunch.' He kisses
the side of my neck and presses against me. It's wonderful
to be so desired.
'Step away from the cook,' I order. 'I can't concentrate
when you do that.'
Our guests will arrive within the hour and he insists that
I have enough done and must sit down for another glass of
champagne. The air is filled with the aromas of spicy mince
pies, roasting turkey and plum pudding. If only Dad were
here the day would have a chance of perfection. I make a
little toast to him.
We have decided to have a gentle, indulgent end to this
year. We will stay at home and treat ourselves to the best of
everything we fancy. It may be the last such celebration of
its kind. Mum is deteriorating fast now. She has trouble with
darkness behind a window when it renders it a mirror and
she imagines there are people spying on her. They mock her,
she says, waving and threatening. She heard someone playing
the piano in the house yesterday and was upset by that. We
don't have a piano so I assume it was a piece of music on
the radio. She still enjoys herself, however, and her frustrations
and fear pass quickly, but she is less and less able to
reason and hardly speaks much any more. Physically she is
becoming a slighter woman and that's heartbreak to behold.
And yet, I have so much hope for us. My biggest is that
Mum's brain will simply shut down some night and she just
won't wake up. She will simply forget to breathe, in her sleep,
and slip away without realising. That would be such a peaceful
end. Why not? It could happen. I'm allowed to hope, to
dream.
Benny and Jed arrive together, all scrubbed and excited.
Jed has made a holly wreath for the front door. Its red berries
and glossy green leaves are in happy contrast to the dark
wood. He has a talent for display and could go into business
selling these wares. The planter he made for Dad's funeral
is still utterly lovely. I have added some festive decorations
to it and it shines outside the back door of the house. Mona
arrives and we raise a toast to absent friends. Mum threatens
to burst if we don't open some presents.
We have imposed a 10 pounds upper limit and the only person
I have broken that for is Mum. She gets pink Wellingtons
because that's her favourite colour. She tramps about in them
proudly. Roly looks less certain about the studded collar with
his name on a disc hanging from the front. It may or may
not last the season. Benny and Jed look happy in the new
hats and scarves I have bought them. Jed is thrilled with the
earmuffs I found and says they're the business 'fer that 'lottment.
Cold's suffin savage thair'. Mona loves her pen and
pencil case. It has sequins that sparkle happily like the
flashing lights on the Christmas tree. 'This will go into my
parole prisoner bag,' she informs me. She keeps her notes
and papers in a special briefcase for that subject alone.
We still await Dr Monroes diaries, and in the meantime our
favourite theory is that Nelly's baby was adopted by the family
and named Antoine after his soldier dad. It's a possibility and
some day we may know the truth of it.
Mum's gift to me is some beautiful yarn. Simon helped
her choose it. I will use it to finish the bedspread she started
but can never finish. I see in its pattern the lines and drills
of my allotment, Simon the order and colours of his bookshelves
at the library. Who knows what it means to Mum
now, if anything at all.
Simon and I do not exchange gifts. Instead we have made
something together. We unveil it for the company. It is a
ship made of lollipop sticks in honour of the boat that brought
us together. On the underside are the initials KFSH. And
that might be a good story for another generation long after
we have gone.
It is the story of ordinary people, who lived and loved in
a small town in the middle of nowhere. I think it's worth
telling.