Chapter 3 Brenda steals a car and Audrey has an operation – Part 5

By about midnight Brenda was tired. The adrenaline was spent, the anticipation, the buzz of what was intended to be a shortlived life of crime was fading. A sodium orange glow was spreading out towards her, beckoning her on far and far away from the darkness. She needed a bed for the night, somewhere with a car park visible from the road, so that the police would see it. Brenda pulled into a petrol station to ponder what to do next and how to do it. It didn’t take long to work out that there was a whole handbag full of possibilities sitting right beside her. But no, rummaging through a stranger’s personal items was not part of the plan. And yet, Brenda reasoned, the plan wasn’t really working as intended, so perhaps it was time to come up with another one.

First she opened the wallet in search of cash for petrol, before someone in the shop started to notice her. She needn’t have worried. The spotty young man with greasy black hair straggled around his face was absorbed in Candy Crush, amazed as he approached level fifteen for the first time ever. He kept pushing back his hair, wiping his nose on the back of his grubby hand, swiping and swiping and swiping unaware of the customer on the forecourt.

In the handbag were many cards, most of them fairly new and all with the special wavey thing. But Brenda decided that filling up wasn’t a good idea, nor was spending the cash she had found in the purse. That would be stealing she reasoned. But putting just £30’s worth of fuel in the car with a wavey card, that would be alright. A little extra petrol would be enough to get her further away. It would be additional evidence of her crime, even though topping up petrol wasn’t really proper theft. This confusing logic made Brenda’s head ache, but she decided it made some sort of sense for someone clever enough to work it out, even if it wasn’t her. She put the cash back in the purse and buried it amongst the peppermints, minus one. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was. Some minutes later Brenda had broken the young man’s Candy Crush spell and, slightly dizzy with her victory, was driving away from the petrol station. Now she need a cheap hotel where she could do the wavey thing again.

The wavey thing was just the start. Brenda’s resistance was fast fading. She searched the car’s various pockets and storage cubbyholes. In one she found a universal phone charger, but having plugged it into her mobile had immediately unplugged it. She cut short a platoon of missed calls marching in from her other life. But she needed the phone to find a hotel that charged less than £30 a night. With ruthless impatience Brenda deleted all the messages and missed call notifications. Brutal and cold, she didn’t read them. They were for someone else. A Premier Inn wanted £29 a night and has free parking at Gatwick Airport. Surely they would find her there? At two in the morning the police had probably stopped looking for stolen cars. And she could get a reasonable night’s sleep before they came for her.

Checking into the hotel Brenda made sure to take in the little suitcase, proud of its gleaming black lines and four wheels. She had to practise a little to get it going in a straight line, but once she got the hang of it she swung into the Premier Inn reception bold and brave and with only minor entanglement with the revolving door. She waved a stranger’s wavey card, and listened patiently as the lady behind the desk explained something about hard or soft pillows. Deepa Chaudhary, on work experience as part of her hotel management course, noted the worn and tired clothes and their exhausted inhabitant. Was that blood on her cheek? But Deepa was trained not to judge by appearances and the credit card had gone through and she had a suitcase. Deepa pointed to where breakfast would be served later, and called “Have a good night”. She watched as Brenda’s suitcase turned neatly but unexpectedly in front of her, almost tripping her up and heading for the bar instead of going with Brenda to the lift.

As Brenda, still in her clothes, lay down on the tightly made bed, she looked at the black suitcase trying to imagine its contents. She mumbled and drooled slightly into crisp bright white pillow slips and fell into a deep and redeeming sleep. Eventually she wrenched the sheets and duvet out from under the mattress and still in her clothes wrapped herself in a fuzzy warm cocoon, ready for rebirth.

**********

When the ambulance arrived the pain in Audrey’s ankle was a screaming aria. Her face was itchy with dried tears, random hairs stuck along her cheeks, across her eyes. The paramedics were on the edge of her consciousness, clean and tidy in smart uniforms with mysterious pockets attached to their belts. Audrey couldn’t look at them. She mumbled answers to their questions, watched listlessly as they plied their various instruments and smiled encouragingly at her. Eventually they brought in a wheeled gurney, pristine clean, swathed in white too quickly stained with Audrey’s slow drying mud and soggy clothes. As they started wheeling her away Audrey was crying again. Stephen and Margaret standing at the front door holding hands tight with Deirdre were also crying for Audrey. It was probably the exhaustion. “You’ve all the experience too” said Deirdre sadly, inspecting what she had retrieved from her nose after many minutes’ burrowing effort. The paramedics reminded them “once we get her to the Victory, she’ll be in good hands, don’t you worry,” but no one laughed except Deirdre. Audrey was spent and wheezing and tears that had nothing to do with her ankle, pounding less now under the influence of cocodamol, were falling. But these were different tears, these tears had been bound up too tight for too long and would wait no more. They slid down her face, whittling in the dirt the lines of some other story, some other score. As the ambulance doors slammed shut, Audrey let out a little sob and then a long lonely wail. She couldn’t see a paramedic turn and raise her carefully shaped eyebrows at her companion behind the wheel. “More than an ankle I’d say,” he muttered before catching her eye and turning towards the main road, blue lights flashing indigo on falling rain and the puddles’ gleam.

Chapter 3 Brenda steals a car and Audrey has an operation – Part 4

Brenda looked up from the floor at the shining knight in black silouetted armour and understood, weeping and abject that this must stop before he kills her, before she makes of him a murderer. Beyond fear, beyond pain, beyond lies, rising whispers, screams in silence. It must be over. There is no more left in her to take it, no part of her body that has not been bruised or wounded, no internal organ that has not absorbed a resonating blow, and no part of her mind that can still step aside to watch it all keep happening. As she watches wary and waiting for the next blow he growls “need a slash, clean yourself up”. He tiny steps away and she understands. Tell someone. Tell social services, tell the neighbours, tell the police. That is the only way, the only way out. But social services won’t be here for a few days, and the neighbours won’t believe her, will be too scared to believe her, see her wounds, believe her bruises. The police then. They’ll probably ignore her. Everyone does she reasoned. But they must listen, must see. So she will get herself arrested.

She waits until she hears the splashy jangling sound of recycled lager hitting water and struggles breathless to her feet. Wincing as she sneaks out into the hallway she grabs her coat and shoves eager feet into still wet shoes. Teeth clenched, her coat pulled tight around her, she runs, mouth shut grim tight, silent. In her coat pockets she has a set of keys, a Nectar card, a handful of change, a blood stained tissue from some other day’s wounding, and a highend mobile phone provided by social services but with no charge. In terror that he might be fool enough to risk being seen and follow her, Brenda runs fast along the lane in the almost dark, remembering to avoid the puddles and curiously conscious that if she gets too wet she might spoil the car seats and carpets. She must be careful, quiet and quick, in case anyone is watching. And the car might not be there still. Panic at what might happen if it was gone drove her faster, lungs burning, legs crying out, eyes streaming, bruises pounding a drum beat’s reminder. But with all this somewhere in the back of her brain an exhilaration drives her, a new fear and a sense of power she has never before experienced. She’s laughing and weeping into the rain.

She passes no one as she hurries through the lanes, only an ambulance, lights blazing in the dark, blue accusing eyes. We see you. We see you. Do you see the pounding in Brenda’s head? Do you feel the throbbing of the bruises on her back, to her face? Do you see the blood not drying in her hair, sending soft amber streaks along her wet cheeks? No, you do not because you cannot see. No you do not because Brenda is very good at hiding such things. Look harder and you might see.

When she reaches Turzel House, Brenda can see no lights blue or otherwise in the kitchen, only a hint of light creeping out from around heavy curtains in some other room. Feeling like someone else, not even pretending, really feeling like someone else she opens the car door with a confidence that she really owns, even though as Luke’s wife Brenda has never been confident. Fearless she slings her wet coat into the back seat, knowing that it would absolutely land on the seat but not caring at all if it landed on the floor. Bold and brazen she doesn’t even look.

As soon as the door shuts, the car’s clever sensors come alive and a friendly message on the dashboard tells Brenda to press the brake together with the illuminated on button to start the car. As she does so, a powerful engine explodes quietly into hungry life, the radio muttering something murmury, barely audible about a long dead composer. Keeping an eye on the front door of the house, Brenda puts the car into reverse and turns it around with unexpected alacrity. She nurses the engine with cautious stealth rather than pushing it to roar with power anxious, not yet to draw attention to her theft. It’s too soon, still too close. Brenda breathes deep and slow, cossetted in rich deep leather, cossetted knowing that her once handsome man’s days of punching her are over. Brenda is new, a thief stealing someone else’s car. She will very soon be arrested, but for a little while she would stay in this expensive stolen car’s embrace. Her life is changing. Vague thoughts of spending the night in jail soothed the pains in her head and back. Watching the wipers adjust their speed to the rain’s intensity, she turned off the car’s lights and smiled.

Brenda pulled out of the driveway, looking left and right and left again, almost daring him to have followed her. Her defiance overcome with reason, Brenda set off in the opposite direction to home, knowing that when she went back it would be with at least two police officers, maybe even a police dog. She passed no one on the empty lanes, no walkers, no cyclists, no cars. As she reached the next village she turned on the headlights and set off in search of a larger road. Radio 3 was playing jazz now and Brenda figured that once she found a main road, she had about an hour or so before the police pulled her over and asked for her driving license. With glee she knew she had no licence to show and with glee she expected her crime would be even worse. 

She passed cars and people coming out of pubs, buses swishing and swooping in and out of the traffic, filled with faceless strangers, groaning along. Sometimes she tried to smile at them lane to lane, but was afraid her guilt would show. Instead of looking at the people and the traffic she focused only on driving and driving, waiting, listening to the radio, the news, the music, the evening play, the book at bedtime. The car carried her warm and safe and endlessly towards tomorrow. But there came no blue lights, there came no sirens and Brenda was yet further and further away in an alien beyond.

Chapter 3 Brenda steals a car and Audrey has an operation – Part 2

When she reaches Turzel House Brenda notes with small wistful envy lights glowing in the kitchen, amber beams reaching out a welcome through the decaying afternoon. A warm embrace instead of a clout about the head beckoned. But her visit would be the same as the last time, if she tried to tell the people there. She would once again mumble tongue-tied and embarrassed, and then as she turns away be thankful that the couple are too old to hear her and their daughter too soft in the head to remember.

Brenda felt with squeezing shame her frail courage fade, and as she passes the snazzy car in the driveway knows she will not even knock on the door this time. She will shove the post through the letterbox and make her way straight back to the bungalow. But passing the car she got a brief glimpse of someone else’s life spread out across the front passenger seat. There was a gaping handbag full of stuff, most visible an unclipped wallet with many, many credit cards. There was a key fob too, and a crumpled map, Toffee Crisp wrappers, an old fashioned Filofax open showing next week’s activities, comfy flat shoes on the passenger side floor. It was all just sitting there. “Some people have no sense” Brenda muttered, tut tutting as she offloaded the post. Turning quickly away from the door she passes the car again, but this time comes closer to check that there really was all that stuff just sitting there in an unlocked car. Tut tut.

The wind battered her, speeding her along to malevolence, vice and a shrinking self. A passive, prematurely grey haired annoyance, Brenda is a long way from the clever pretty girl who passed her Civil Service exams so long ago. It was just luck, she tells herself again as she reminds herself again that she loves him. He just has a temper, is angry, impotent. It’s not his fault. He doesn’t really mean it. She shouldn’t be so clumsy and slow when he is in so much pain. He needs her, needs her love. But a whisper says she isn’t clumsy and he isn’t really in pain. And the whisper says he’s been a bit that way inclined, even before a car fell on him. He’s been a bit that way inclined, since they came back from honeymooning in Bognor. He’s been that way inclined for over twenty years now, wheelchair or not. It’s worse now that she knows he’s a fake. This is power, but power and Brenda have never met. Brenda ignores the rain and wind, and grubby birds struggling to fly straight against the weather. She tells herself again she’ll take anything she has to take for the man she loves. She’ll lie for the man she loves. Love trumps lies and shame, she says.

And so as she walks Brenda chooses a different picture. Far away from the formless huddled shape, she is no longer in grubby jeans and leaking shoes. Her worn out parka, its zip broken and velcro fuzz filled, is not torn and damp. Instead Brenda sees their wedding day. She is 26 wearing a pale blue suit and a little hat with blue feathers. The long since sold strand of pearls her mother had given her are around her neck, matching pearls in her recently pierced ears. Her new shoes are too high and tip her forwards, so she has to turn her toes out to keep her balance. She walks clumsily and clings to his beefy arm tight in a borrowed suit that smells of mothballs. She remembers him smiling, telling her it was their new beginning and things were changing. Her smile stayed beamy bright all through the service, all through the day. She never noticed the dancing menace flickering in his watchful eyes.

Luke Mordrake is tall, brawny and strong, with big powerful hands the nails permanently blacked with engine grease, even at his wedding. His hair that day was a mass of shining waves, wet and diamond dropped and bouncing in a brisk seaside wind. Roughly parted it framed a tense oval face with large brown eyes and a star dazzled smile that flashed only occasionally. His mouth holds still to a dangerous, half cruel shape. Over the years full lips have twisted steadily nasty and thin, a narrow and ugly leer.

Brenda is fond of that wedding day picture, an embellished fantasy taylored for the wild open air of a moment’s freedom. Hidden and lost in romantic yesterdays Brenda can forget that she’s his sport, entertainment when the television’s over, when his meagre quota of local old friends has sloped off full of beer and home made pizza. They shoulder relief like a hod of bricks when the visit is over, and return less often for fear of its weight.

But Brenda’s image of Luke on their wedding day is changing. Once hard and sharp edges are smudging, getting softer, the colours are less saturated, less intense. Hurts and bruises once overwritten with those edges and colours, are showing through. As Brenda walks through the blustering rain, tears seep into the colours of this turbulent afternoon. They blur the shapes of seagulls swirling high and far from home and Brenda sees ragged black crows, wiping carelessly across the wet sky. She hears the crows caw. Mournful half-hearted notes fade into clouds, their soft pencil marks washing away away in the tired drizzle. Brenda struggles against the wind. Brenda can write her image no darker. With every blow its shapes and shades are slowly fractured, indistinct, anonymous.

In a craze of splintered romantic memories, she opened the door and he was already bellowing “where the bloody hell have you been”. “Just taking the post to Turzel House, that’s all. I haven’t been more than half an hour. It’s still early for tea, but I’ll get you another tinny from the fridge”. She came into the smokey room, snooker click click clacking and whispering across the green and as she proffered the can, he rose up from the sofa, mighty and somehow amplified. Brenda took a step back, looking up at him her hand outstretched, the beer quivering in its can and drops spilling out onto the carpet. “I …” was all she managed before the impact knocked her across the room, even though she thought she’d held herself limp enough to withstand it, at least just to land on the floor. Head ringing and eyes blurring she caught her breath as on hands and knees she waited for the next blow. He wouldn’t stop she knew until she had paid for her jolly spirits, her moments of freedom. He was leaning on the wall, bracing himself and delivering a stamp to her back as she tried to get herself up. Her face, crammed hard against the mostly empty bookshelf, is a singing red and bleeding, sympathetic slow, a tender caress along her cheek mingles ruby red with tears and pain. She coughs and cries “please, no, I didn’t mean it”, not knowing what she didn’t mean. And he steps carefully around her prone form to tread hard on an outstretched hand. “Didn’t you?” and he pushes his weight down into his heel as hard as he can, hoping for a crunch or at least some more begging and tears.

Chapter 3 Brenda steals a car and Audrey has an operation – Part 1

It’s a blessing whenever the postman brings them someone else’s letters. It’s the only time she can go out alone. Outside she can be brave, walking upright and unafraid along open lanes, redelivering a stranger’s post.

Brenda Mordrake’s world is one of fear. The fear is visceral, a clawing, grasping talon, clutching all the time deep inside, twisting every thought, every word rendering words empty, voided. Fear of saying the wrong thing, fear of feeding him the wrong food, fear of forgetting to turn the on telly when his favourite programmes were due. Fear is her cage, cast iron, immutable.

His fear does not cage him: it is an enemy to be battled. He fears exposure, being named a fraud, admitting that the injuries weren’t so bad, the confession that the accident did not destroy his life. Once the pins were in and the bones renewed he mostly recovered. He isn’t as lame as he pretends. Fractures to pelvis, spine and thigh healed. But always he’s in so much pain he can’t walk, he said. Efforts to show willing and work with all the helpful people paid off because they believed him. And hidden, his surreptious exercises slowly built meagre strength in joints and bones. He can stand and walk, not fast or far, but fast and far enough to aim a powerful arm and clenched fist in Brenda’s direction. It’s Brenda’s fault because it will be her fault, if they get found out. He is afraid and fear is his enemy. He wants to hurt her more. The enemy gives him license.

In the beginning Brenda believed his fiction, believed he really couldn’t stand or walk even a little bit. She believed it until she saw him walk across the room when he thought she was out. She was parking the car after a trip to the village off licence, when a shape moved across the tar grimed window. It was only a shadow but she knew. Her heart had briefly fluttered with misplaced hope, hope that now the smacks were rarer and the kicking foregone as part of the charade, they might go back to where they started. Back to misremembered moments of briefly lived splendour.

The hope sizzled and fried in angry air as soon as she crossed the threshold, struggling with the shopping, praying he hadn’t noticed her arrive home. The slap’s force knocked her down, onions flying across the floor, milk carton spewing its contents over everything else in the bag. “You want to watch who you’re watching girl,” he’d spat before turning away and walking ramrod straight with tiny steps back to his couch and the television. She lay for a moment, crumpled on the beer tins, milk leaking slow and wet, her face throbbing against the dirty wall. She notices ants wiggling along the floor, dessicated flies, upside down cheesy bugs and hot tears soaking into dust. She struggles to her feet, faint and dizzy and brings him a McEwan’s fished from her shopping bag. Anxiously she wipes away the milk with her sleeve. She pulls the ring top and hands it over. He snarls up at her, eyes narrow, icesplintered, violent. Dirty chewed fingers grip a half-smoked Marlborough as he watches Brenda bend to pick up newspapers fallen to the floor. She keeps her face as far as possible from his other empty fist.

Delusions and caution undone, kicks, smaller and stampier, returned. Fear rose ever present between them, a black tension, no space for anything else. Permanent. Her only excursions were Brenda’s occasional postal deliveries and the elaborate shared pantomimes with the wheelchair, the crutches with their carefully padded handles, the artificial heaving of him in and out of the car at the supermarket, the pub. She breathes in his sweat, stinking stale like onions and still intoxicating and fights tears for all those lost promises. He likes to see her cry in public, adds drama and pathos to his situation, makes him a hero in his own play. Sometimes he pinches the underside of her arm to help her along. He says it’s just his way, and “I know it doesn’t really hurt, eh girl, does it?” as he pinches again, twists and watches for the tears.

But the post was another thing. He can’t risk some nosy parker coming looking for a missing gardening catalogue or water bill, so he sends her out to take it to the right house. It was a cherished freedom and she wondered if there would ever be a day when she would have the courage to ask for help, tell some stranger on a rainy doorstep she needs a friend, not even a friend, just someone, anyone who could break the crushing spell, help her break her silence.

Late on Sunday afternoon she brings him a cup of tea and a cake, standing patient until he’s woken fully from his nap and is ready to take it. She hopes the tea won’t go cold. Dismissed and sitting quietly in her scruffy chair, Brenda watches him go through yesterday’s post, looking for his next appointment letter, his betting statement. He tosses a handful of letters onto the carpet and grunts. “You’d better get these back before they miss them and come asnooping”. Brenda’s never dared question why he thought people would come to them in search of lost post. She looks at him, warily, considering the safest way to answer. He’s giving her a mock grin, as he bites into his Bakewell tart, though the grin looks like a smile. She smiles back, as she turns on the television and hands him the remote. Before she leaves Brenda empties the ashtray and brings him another beer. She takes away his empty cup and plate. Dutiful, caring, pretending she’s still in love not fear. “Shan’t be long” she trills and coat in hand heads out of the little bungalow towards the lane.

She knew she wouldn’t be long as soon as she felt the hard cold rain pelting down on her head. She knew she wouldn’t be long because the threat of his anger would drive her back, before any sort of long had a chance to take hold. She knew she wouldn’t be long because she never was, never was. She knew. The lane is slick seal grey with debris from the windy storms strewn across her path. Dead colours and icy air. Transient sticks and leaves buffeted in the wind. Rainmade bumps of stones and mud a random little landscape, fettered and passive earth and air. But there are no walls and for a few scant minutes no fear.

Chapter 2 The Funeral – Part 2

At the other end of the telephone she was sighing mostly with relief. Stephen and Margaret had meant a lot to Angus, particularly as underwriters of some of his schemes although Audrey was unaware of this, and she didn’t want his passing to go without them. She had the solution in a flash of fateful inspiration. The idea to bring the funeral to them caused some minor consternation, but overall seemed a reasonable idea. “Can you do that?” wondered Margaret, “is it legal?” Stephen asked, but for Audrey there was no question. The ashes had been in the boot since she’d collected them from the crematorium. They and she would be on their way to Great Leigh on Saturday morning. They would spend a delightful weekend together and then Audrey would return home to begin her new life, a life where she would strive to overcome the Angus shaped hole he had left for her. There were many other, different shaped holes that, unbeknownst to Audrey, were waiting for her to tumble into.

The second funeral at Great Leigh would be her final act of mourning Audrey decided. Then she would focus on what Angus had instructed when he whispered through paper dry lips: “get the cash, turn it all into cash, fast”. And then he had wheezed and coughed, his eyes swimming blue and steely alive through his tears until the steel softened and the sparkled blue turned flat and empty.

At Turzel House they all agreed it was a lovely gesture for Audrey to bring a version of the funeral to them. It was unfortunate it was so very wet, on the day of the private service. A persistent rain and ragged wind bullied them into a formless damp and aged huddle. They stood visibly shivering on the wet weed riddled gravel, unable to move for fear of intrusive crunching, turning slowly blue, their limbs approaching the tenor of marble. It was an incongruous little crew, umbrellas in icycled hands, looking sad and listening with earnest patience to Audrey as she read out the address in her best church voice. When it came to the singing (always the best part Stephen had whispered to his wife), they perked up and three of them managed a credible rendition of Jerusalem. Deidrie sang the tune from Andy Pandy, followed by brief snatches of the Sailor’s Hornpipe which she remembered she was fond of, possibly from Blue Peter.

All in all it was a suitably miserable and damp affair bringing more tears to Audrey’s worn out eyes. The rest of her weekend did likewise as Deirdre pestered her with questions about the box mistaking it for a surprise present for her, and explaining that her parents were training to run in the Tunbridge Wells marathon. “I shall be cheering from the sidelines as my knees are too bad for the hills. It’s going to be very exciting.” “But Deirdre dear, your parents are nearly one hundred years old, don’t you think it might be a bit much for them, even with the training?” Audrey said. “Oh no,” Deirdre replied, “they have the advantage of experience you see.”

Experience was the answer to most of Deirdre’s rare challenges to her parents decisions and instructions. “Why?” she might ask, and her parents would gently explain “because we have the experience my dear”. Audrey considered it but decided not to bother explain that experience was one thing, when it resulted from decades of socialising and diplomatic activities all over the world. But it wouldn’t really help with a 26 mile run through hilly Tunbridge Wells and surrounds, especially if one is in one’s midnineties. Audrey resigned herself sadly to the thought that she should let this line of conversation drop and that she should make the most of her time with her decaying Godparents and their child. She should also start thinking about what should happen to Deirdre once Angus welcomed Stephen and Margaret to his world. Angus was an equally unsuitable candidate for a marathon even in his fleeting preflab prime. The thought of the three marathoning somewhere in the far beyond brought a sad smile to Audrey’s face and tears to hover too close, so she switched off her brain and joined her friends to stare at the television. She had soon joined them in a little snooze before Deirdre landed in her lap after yet another failed pirouette. Thus progressed the evening until it was time to take the dogs for their evening walk.

The next morning it was clear the excitement of the on demand funeral had been a bit too much for them all, because everyone overslept. Even Alistair who had inadvertently spent much of the evening out in the rain, having studiously ignored calls to come in from the pretelevision stroll and wee session. Audrey had intended to make an early start back to town and woke with alarm to hear Deirdre banging an ancient tin drum in the hall outside her door, and calling them all to breakfast. Her parents had wisely removed their hearing aids the evening before, but for Audrey the wake up call crashed into a particularly harrowing dream about a cascade of tomato soup tins falling on her as she perused the canned goods in Asda. “Dear, dear, Deirdre please do stop, I’m awake. I’m getting up. Let them sleep”. Deirdre ignored her and tried for a bit of rhythm with the ladle she was wielding, going from the rim to the sides of the drum and back to the middle. It wasn’t long before she dealt herself a sharp blow across her fingers and dropped the drum and ladle, and started crying pathetically, dramatically kicking the drum until it bounced away down the stairs landing close to the kitchen in the perfect spot for someone to trip over it later.

Deidre made herself small, and whimpering and crouched on the floor of the mostly lightless hall, managing to conceal herself almost completely. Coming out of her room, wrestling ineffectually with her dressing gown and slippers determined to get themselves onto the wrong feet, Audrey stumbled over the hunched form and barely managed to catch a stray frond of artificial pot plant in an effort to rebalance. Not having much weight the fake plant flew with her into the banister before going solo to follow the drum down the stairs. The pot plant lacked the weight and bounce of the drum, so it landed lightly at the foot of the stairs on the aging Labrador. He in terror, regained youth’s long forgotten nimbleness just long enough to gurgle a yelp and scrabble a few precious inches along the floor to where the plant had landed, its plastic leaves within chewing range. Such was his age Bertie’s chewing days were long behind him. Instead he mashed his head down onto a new makeshift if slightly spikey pillow. “Sorry” Deirdre mumbled, nursing her bruised hand and then squeezing at it to see if there was blood. There wasn’t. Audrey, having regained her balance if not her poise, reached down to help Deirdre up. Thus began a fateful day.

It wasn’t until midafternoon that the morning’s dramas had settled and the usual routine of a Sunday at Turzel House reasserted itself, minus lunch. By the time Stephen and Margaret were roused and Deirdre had lovingly dressed them according to the ingrained and ancient pattern, it was noon. And by the time a complex breakfast involving reheated fish pie, baked beans and cakes was consumed and cleared away, and after Deirdre had sung her new favourite song for them, it was late in the afternoon. Her departure imminent and a familiar very hot bath fantasy shimmering at the back of her mind, Audrey was in good spirits. They were generous and kind spirits, spirits of magnanimous generosity, but the spirits were unaware that the delicious hot bath, with its scented candles, warm towels and chilled Chardonnay would be postponed for quite some time.

Chapter 2 The Funeral – Part 1

While Audrey was still intact and dragging the ancient Labrador along through greasy grass, her handbag was laying open on the seat of her car. It contained her Filofax, wallet, housekeys, some long forgotten peppermints right at the bottom, a notebook and pen, hairbrush, emergency make-up, lip gloss and miscellaneous bills that she had been carrying around with her for some days, unopened. There was also a pair of expensive sunglasses, newly bought with yet another credit card and a forgotten bottle of perfume which was almost gone and its recipe out of print. Her mobile phone was in her pocket, the battery on red. She was all set to return home and would just give the dogs a little stroll to save her friends the trouble of coming out into the dreary damp afternoon. She walked briskly but unhurried, cosy in the thought of her warm house in London where there were no dark corners, cobwebs, dead flies or putrefying mice under the bed. The windows didn’t breathe cold air throughout the night and there were no dead viney stems tapping at them and scaring her with thoughts of Cathy and Heathcliffe.

The car’s keyfob, where it had been carelessly tossed, was beside her handbag. Her small weekender bag was in the boot along with Angus’s ashes in their box. The thought of this proximity, this closeness to him made her smile as she walked. Something curiously abstract about the touching of her bag and his box comforted her. Angus had been a large man, tall, amply padded, jowly and with enormous hairy ears and enormous hairy hands and a heart far to big for its own good. The combination made for a lot of ashes, so the box was rather heavier than one might expect. She was ready to go back to town. The last minute offer to take the dogs for a walk had been spontaneous and she expected her helpful gesture to take fifteen minutes max. She should be home in time for Country File which she wouldn’t watch having had quite enough of rural idylls and their exhausting joys.

Audrey had arrived in Great Leigh the day before, so that Margaret and Stephen could pay their last respects to Angus. Rather than carry the heavy box into Margaret and Stephen’s house, Audrey had invited them and their daughter out onto the driveway. There she had conducted a little service, coming close but not too close, to a parody of the ceremony Margaret and Stephen had been unable to attend, due to a combination of various confusions and lack of stamina.

On what should have been the day of the official funeral at Roehampton Crematorium there had been an unfortunate complication stemming from Deirdre’s inability to drive the car to the motorway or even in its general direction. She had decided that her parents couldn’t possibly know the way to London, despite their protestations to the contrary. Stephen and Margaret sat huddled together in the back seat, clinging to their seatbelts as they swayed from side to side around roundabouts and unexpected corners. Feeling slightly sick it was easier to just smile and nod, supressing occasional screams as Deirdre narrowly missed yet another wobbly cyclist. Deidre’s confusion combined with impressive determination not to follow the advice of her terrified navigators lead to four complicated trips to Sainsbury’s, instead of the relatively uncircuitous journey to the motorway. The trips to Sainsbury’s were followed with absolute confidence by another slightly more direct and traffic clogged journey, ending up at the post office. Added to this were the difficulties of parking which Deirdre insisted on at each unintended destination, for reasons of safety and so that she could double check that they hadn’t somehow arrived at Roehampton Crematorium after all. There were also multiple discussions about getting out of the car: who should get out, who should stay in, why should anyone get out at all as we aren’t there yet, and so on. The process was very slow and involved numerous repeated and generally inaccurate manouevres. Two more tries to find the M25 eventually brought them to the local dump, where they had to finally admit defeat. Altogether their excursion had taken several hours. 

Relaunching the journey from the dump to Roehampton had required slow and painful deliberations mostly in their heads as conversation and discussion had proved useless so far. Stephen and Margaret didn’t want to be discouraging but the day’s driving had so sapped their meagre strength, that they finally insisted Deirdre drive them home following their instructions whatever they were, “You are being very naughty Deidre and now it must stop.” Margaret had said, her tone firm and unexpectedly loud. Tears welling, Deirdre hunched silent behind the wheel, waiting for instructions, picking at threadbare patches of once fluffy steering wheel cover. Stephen and Margaret waited for her to forget about feeling sad. It was a short pause and forgetting the crisscross patterns, with tears dried Deirdre started the engine, with a flourish. “Where to my lords and ladies” she demanded joyfully revving the engine and, switching on the indicator and wipers with another flourish.

Her parents peered cautiously at one another, and as Stephen waved an imperious hand to indicate forward, everyone understood that today was not the day to tackle the Roehampton journey. Since the dump was quite close and still within some part of Deirdre’s frayed memory, they could shout out “left here” or “right” with the occasional “no, you’ve missed the turning” thrown in for good measure. The homeward journey proved as exciting as the outbound one: circuitous with frequent reversings and overlooked traffic lights. Unexpected but exciting diversions took them the wrong way down one way streets. Stephen and Margaret held on tight to one another staring hard at the road, shouting halfhearted directions. They were tired and with the question of Roehampton resolved, didn’t really mind if they spent the rest of the day touring around Great Leigh and its environs. It was good practise for Deirdre, Margaret mused, even though Deirdre passed her driving test some fifty years ago. It never hurts to have a little bit more practise she reasoned and wondered if Deirdre might be in need of new glasses.

Their efforts to get to the funeral had in fact been somewhat previous, by a whole day. Stephen had discovered this when they arrived at the dump somewhere on the outskirts of Great Leigh. He had looked at the invitation card to check how horribly late they would be and was quite relieved that they would not be late at all. Not keen to tackle the challenge again, he kept the information to himself. He couldn’t face the possibility of another mystery tour, preceded by another horribly early breakfast, getting rigged out once again in deathly premonitiony black. He suggested they send a telegram instead to apologise for their absence. But no one could quite remember how that worked, so in the end Stephen decided it was best to just not show up. He was confident that Audrey would ring them after the funeral, and so she did the next day in a state of considerable anxiety. Deirdre had told her with absolute certainty that they were being driven to the funeral in a yellow taxi, “not a submarine, a taxi” she had said. But this had no basis in fact. Stephen explained the confusion, and Margaret nodded at the telephone in agreement. “The thing is, it’s been so long since we’ve been to town, that Margaret and I weren’t much use direction-wise you see”. It wasn’t much of an excuse but Audrey got it.

Chapter 1 An unexpected fall – final part

Through her sobs and tears Audrey looked around the kitchen for sympathy and was mildly surprised to hear both Godparents tut tut tutting. “We never go down to the summerhouse that way” said Deirdre’s mother shaking her head reproachfully and raising her sparse little eyebrows at her naughty Godchild. “No” agreed her husband. “Not since the stairs collapsed in 1979. It’s just not safe”. The swelling in Audrey’s ankle was by now pushing hard against the confines of her expensive, once immaculate leather boot and no amount of biscuits, chocolate or otherwise, consoled her. Anger exhausted, Audrey was past the point of caring and tears crept unnoticed and cold along her jaw to drip from her chin, tracing a narrow channel through the thin layer of dried mud covering most of Audrey’s face. She watched them sagely nod at one another as the tea went cold. Deirdre looked suitably sad and sneaked the dog biscuits under the table to Alistair. With his scabby head in Audrey’s lap, the Lab dribbled warm drool onto Audrey’s muddy camel hair car coat and cold wet trousers. Audrey dabbed ineffectually at her dirty face and Stephen and Margaret dozed off over their tea. Deirdre looked on, an expression of gentle kindness in her eyes as she picked at her cardigan. Gentle sniffing and choral snoring from the aged parents and the dogs’, masked the first hints of the ambulance’s arrival onto the crunchy gravel.

The sudden thumping on the front door rallied all of them with a jolt. “Come in, come in” called Deidre, excited and impressed with the miltary panache of the paramedics’ green and yellow outfits. She stared big eyed as they took Audrey’s blood pressure and temperature, as they checked her eyes and asked her lots of questions about what happened and what day it was and who is the prime minister. Deirdre was very impressed with Audrey’s knowledge. After a brisk and thorough assessment they told Audrey she would spend the night in hospital. “Handbag” the lady paramedic called to Audrey and Deirdre promptly handed over her bag. She was pleased to have been helpful to the nice lady with the thick lensed glasses and the dark hair pulled back so tight it might be giving her a headache. Deidre watched as the nice lady and her man-friend eased Audrey onto the special bed. They wheeled her out into the rainy darkness and the waiting ambulance, its blue lights slowly turning and making sapphires of the raindrops as they fell. Fascinated Deidre watched. The special bed suddenly lost its legs and slid rapidly inside the vehicle. Her hands flew to her mouth as she gasped and then she remembered to wave and shout “goodbye, goodbye lovely ambulance lady, goodbye lovely ambulance man” of Audrey, she had no memory.

Soon after the ambulance had left, Deidre, Stephen and Margaret settled down to some more tea but with toast and cheese this time, plus cakes and jam tarts from the village shop. Then they shuffled their way together to their cosy sitting room to watch television. Sprawled in a lazy row along a collapsed sofa and swaddled in woolly blankets they soon forgot the afternoon’s excitement. No one noticed that Audrey’s car was no longer parked in the drive, until Stephen was shutting his bedroom window. He lay in bed wondering about it for a few short minutes before concluding that Audrey’s ankle must have been alright after all, and that she had picked up the car without disturbing them. “Such a kind and considerate woman,” he mumbled and wheezed, his breaths in time for a moment with the click and snizzle of the Labrador’s rhythmic snores.

Chapter 1 An unexpected fall – Part 3

… of biscuits, so Alistair was shooting gleefully between the three and his one true love, thrilled at the exciting shift the mud sliding game was taking.

A crisp and efficient voice said “What service please?” “What service please?” Deirdre repeated in her sing song imitation, before Audrey bellowed out “ambulance, ambulance, tell them to send a bloody ambulance” so Deirdre did, “ambulance, ambulance, tell them to send a bloody ambulance”, while she picked at the little bobbles of wool on her ancient purple cardigan. It was her favourite and she knew vaguely that she had knitted it herself, but that was long ago, at school perhaps, or when she worked in the school after Peter died. She couldn’t remember who Peter was though, nor why he had died. Or indeed if he had died. She sighed and just knew she had once liked knitting. Now it was too confusing for her, more knotting than knitting. As she alternated the bobble picking with fondling Alistairs soft little ears, she mimicked the questions coming down the phone, “are you breathing?” “Yes” Audrey bellowed; “are you conscious”; “Yes” Audrey bellowed; “are you in pain” “yes I’m in bloody pain” Audrey bellowed, this last even louder and making her companions jump, including the dogs. Deirdre forgot to listen to the instructions from the ambulance lady watching instead as the little entourage made their hot and grubby way into the kitchen.

Deirdre was still watching and not listening as her parents, the Labrador, Audrey and the walking frame fell foul of the bricks edging the ancient and slightly undulating kitchen floor. A brick floor was a substantial advance in flooring technology in the 1850s, but no one had fully thought through how the floor would fare over the decades. Neither floor nor bricks were even any more and to the floor’s many undulations had recently been added some very deceptive gaps. One such soon claimed a leg of the walker bringing little injured huddle crashing down.

As they went over Audrey let out a loud and agonised cry, that made the lady on the other end of the phone flinch in sympathy. Audrey’s agonised squeal as she flattened the walker brought additional flinching and new urgency to the call. The walker was a buckled mess beneath Audrey now severely bruised and draped painfully over its contorted tangle. Alistair absolutely adored this new chapter and used the human heap as a special training exercise for his future as an SAS rescue dog. Every sorti brought forth new squeaks and groans that added to Alistair’s excitement. Every paw found purchase on soft and bulging and tender flesh. With every jump Audrey squeaked again. It was terrific terrier fun.

At the other end of the telephone, the 999 lady could hear the series of alarming sobs and squeaks. At the sound of the fall she wisely confirmed that “an ambulance is on its way” before Deirdre dropped the telephone and scurried over to the heap to disentangle her frail and crumpled parents from the pile. “Give me the telephone” Audrey sobbed through her agony, wincing in intense pain as she extracted her injured leg from the grimy heap of mangled walker, aged Godparents and dog leads and decrepit Labrador. As she grabbed the phone, Audrey managed a surreptitious swipe at Alistair persuading him to give up his game and wait behind his beloved instead.

Both the lead with a dog attached and the lead without a dog attached had contrived in the way of ropes and wires to become completely entangled with as many ankles, wrists, leads and bits of walker as possible. The drooling Labrador had no choice but to sit as close as he could to his parents, gagging slightly and panting. Unable to move at all, but feeling quite warm, what with all the bodies around them Stephen and Margaret started smiling and then slowly giggling at each other. They were not at all concerned with getting up again. Their bodies hadn’t been so unexpectedly and toasty warmly close in years. The memories of where this might lead was intoxicating, for all its unlikelihood.

Pulling herself with extreme care from the wreckage and leaning against a vegetable rack full of sprouting potatoes and black bananas, Audrey rapidly explained to the ambulance lady that she now might also have a mild concussion and a damaged back as well as a suspected broken ankle and a twisted wrist. The ambulance lady said “I repeat, an ambulance is on its way.” And so it was.

Deirdre managed to get the three of them fully upright and into chairs. She had taken the almost dry kettle off the hob and refilled it and while she waited for it to boil she told them many times, “a cup of tea, that’s what you need, a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit”. She repeated the phrase, one of her favourites because of the biscuit part, until the kettle boiled and she had made the tea, put the teapot on the table along with cups, milk and biscuits. Deirdre was unaware that the chocolate digestives were rapidly disintegrating in the dog’s water bowl. Audrey sat damp and dirty staring blankly at the tea and dog biscuits, much deflated. She tried to explain the unscheduled slip that had led to the lethal glissade on the muddy slope.

“I fell. I fell trying to get back up your bloody bank. Alistair was charging forwards but this bloody lump of a Lab couldn’t get the momentum going to get up the slope. I tried to pull him, then Alistair came back down to help, and I slipped trying to turn and over I went, pulled in two directions and then none, no balance and the mud like black ice.” She sniffed her self-pity. They vaguely got it. Later when all this was over and far away, Audrey explained more calmly that she had almost made it to the top of the bank separating the house and the drive from the lower lawns and the river. As she was about to take her final step onto level ground, the Lab had stopped and her downhill foot slipped forcing her forwards, almost losing her balance. Turning slightly to get upright her slipping foot had slipped further, forcing her backwards and into an unexpected pirouette, that didn’t include much of her right foot. The foot responded with the sound of crunching, hammered honeycomb toffee and Audrey went over. On hands and knees and with the dogs unintended help she eventually managed to drag herself back to the top where she called and called. No one, not even the person disappearing out towards the lane, had heard her.

Chapter 1 An unexpected fall – Part 2

In between watching Deirdre and Walter strut up and down, as long as they can stay awake Stephen and Margaret spot the gifted and lythe from the fat and clumsy. Like Deirdre’s dancing it’s a bit hit and miss. They usually doze off once the music starts, and resurface snorting and snuffling when the applause kicks in. Then they drift for a while lost in bygone days when, young, gorgeous and agile, they too skimmed endless floors in endless ballrooms all around the world. That tall willowy woman with a tight blonde chignon. Those sumptuous yards of flowing silks, bias cut and eddying in shwooshing waves with every flawless turn. Her partner, slightly taller and angular, spare and pale, has gleaming auburn hair and golden lashed green eyes set high and wide in a long oval face. Time has seen them both crumpled and very small, skin creped, bones eroded and joints calcifying. They are wrinkled and withered and still deep in love.

Stephen and Margaret never notice these creaky impediments as between naps they move in their chairs ever so slightly, in time to the music. They sympathise when Deirdre’s pirouettes stop with a stumble as soon as one foot leaves the floor. They duck when her rampant arms reach full extension. They make sure to keep their feet tucked in. And they are content to let the television give back their shared beauty and the joy. “We’re still here old girl” he says, and she nods lovingly back at shabby remnants and vague hints of glittered copper in his hair, roguish green eyes, freckled cheeks. Once plump lips curl still in a smile that melts her. She tingles and grows warm. She sometimes blushes at the memory of what those lips could do. She falls reckless every time, before turning back to hide in the dancing on the screen, eyes blurred and cheeks burning.

But that was on Saturday and today was an eventful Sunday about to get even more eventful. The three stood peering at the small collection of letters and printed catalogues that had appeared, suddenly it seemed, on their door mat. Deirdre leant to scoop them up, using her Father’s walking frame as an aid and nearly bringing him with her as she bent down. Her Mother’s gnarled and twisted hands reached out ineffectually and hopelessly to catch her Stephen as he teetered. Having long since lost all elasticity or capacity for extension her hands stretched barely a few inches, more in prayer than salvation. Leaning over the frame Stephen caught his breath, and put a hand on her arm. “There there old girl, I’m not done for yet” he wheezed, still out of breath from the earlier bellowing. 

Deirdre, oblivious and still crouched, had her ear to a whistly crack in the door. She waved the letters at them, a frantic request for silence. “Shush will you shush, there’s someone out there” she hissed. “Of course there’s someone out there dear, it will be the dogs coming back with Audrey,” said her mother patiently. “Audrey?” the younger woman replied. “Yes dear, Audrey, you remember our friend, our friend who has been here all weekend with us, our friend who brought you the lovely present from Angus, who has died. You remember the pearls? The pearls Audrey gave you because Angus wanted you to have his Mother’s pearls? And you remember that we stood on the driveway and said goodbye to his ashes, in the box in the boot of her car?” Deirdre’s hand reached to her neck and stroked the triple string of pearls, warm and soft against the draping folds of her neck, but she couldn’t remember Angus or looking into the boot of a car. “There, there it is again, can’t you hear it?” she said instead. Her parents looked from one to the other, sad but resigned. Another little brick had fallen. Deirdre’s mother pushed her cold hands into her pockets and looked out at the gloom expecting to see her dogs and her friend coming back from their last minute walk. “What on earth? What on earth is that? There’s someone on the ground over there, quickly Deirdre, turn on the outside light”. Deirdre did and the three of them moved slowly out into the porch and the pool of light, slightly afraid of what they might find. Behind them the ancient house, blank eyed, sighed and sifted into black.

Peering through the dark they watch enthralled as their two extremely dirty dogs come slowly into focus, wide mouthed with scarlet lolling tongues beating time with their panting. The dogs are just slightly ahead of Audrey who is covered in mud and bits of moss and stick and appears to be crawling on her elbows over the edge of the bank. She too is panting heavily, her mouth opened wide, her teeth bared, her tongue’s pulse possibly beating time along with the dogs’. Random dirty patterns decorate the soft amber of Audrey’s new and as yet unpaid for coat. Her tangled hair, interspersed with globs of dirt and bits of grass, falls over her face and blocks her view. She struggles noisily to get over the top of the bank and as a recognisable amount of filthy wet Audrey appears, her little audience lets out a collective gasp.

Audrey’s face was tear streaked, grubby and red. She was gasping open mouthed at the air and moving with extreme care, clutching the dogs leads for some sort of balance and cursing the terrier for his enthusiasm. “Get an ambulance” she panted as she hooked her elbows further onto the drive and the relative stability of the gravel. The dogs heaved her along a few centimeters closer to the pool of light, desperate to reach their own place of safety. “Get me an ambulance immediately I think I’ve broken my ankle,” she whimpered weak and desperate. Then the tears came back despite her efforts to hold them in and she grisled pathetically in a tiny incoherent voice that she’d fallen down “this damn bank” trying to get back up it.

Audrey is struggling to pull herself together, mustering all her strength. She calls through clenched teeth, “Quickly! Deirdre, dial 999 on the telephone. Now!” Audrey, her hands still tightly wrapped in dog leads, was now heaving herself onto her knees, leaning on the ancient Lab whose bulk and general immobility could support her a little. Together they inch towards Deidre and her parents. Audrey, her fine woolen trousers sodden and cold, her coat a complete mess is sniveling, the Labrador’s lead wound tight around her hand. The terrier she lets go and it gleefully follows Deirdre into the house. Deirdre is his one and only real true love. Deidre knows where the biscuits live and the biscuits were calling him.As she headed for the kitchen Deirdre was repeating in a singsong voice nine nine nine, nine nine nine, nine nine nine, and as she listened to the ring of a distant phone, was trying hard to remember what should happen next. She knew it was important so she knitted her brow in concentration and stared at the filthy carpet and hummed to herself. As she waited, Deirdre saw Alistair dive back and forth between her and her parents and their burden. They had managed to lodge Audrey’s soft frame between them and, using the walker as support were moving very, very slowly out of the dark and inching towards the house. This novelty eclipsed all thoughts 

The Ashes in the Boot – Chapter 1 An unexpected fall

“Shall I, shall I just for a moment go for you? Then you’ve no need to go out until later. It’s so wet.” Smiling benignly a tall well-built woman in her late fifties deftly clips leads onto an ancient drooling and slightly scabby Labrador and an excitable terrier bouncing up and down making the task somewhat of a challenge. He was leaving footprints and tiny scratches on her highly polished boots and making excitable little squeaking sounds. The woman, in an expensive coat that she hadn’t yet worked out how to pay for, soon pushed off into the dreary afternoon and became invisible. Grubby daffodils struggled to remain upright in the soggy ground and it was raining. Holding tight to the leads, Audrey looked at the flowers with some sympathy. She headed for the dilapidated summerhouse on the lower lawn and said to the dogs “once around and back will do you, won’t it boys”.

An hour or so later and two very, very old people are peering out of their gloomy hall window, anxious for their friend and for their precious puppies. “But where are they?” said one to the other, eye to watery, red rimmed eye. And then in unison they bellowed with surprising vigour, “Deirdre, go out and look for Audrey”. The marginally older of the two immediately thought the better of it and added just as loud, “No, no don’t go Deirdre. No need we’ll just wait until Audrey comes back”. “She’ll get lost again” he hissed a breathless breath at his wife. She smiled back nodding and marvelling as always at her dashing husband’s immense wisdom. She hadn’t really heard what he said, but noted fondly the remnants of Marmite toast crumbs settled comfortably in his stubble, and the way he clutched just slightly too tightly at her hand. Deirdre already in wellies, uncomfortably on the wrong feet, ambled up and looked on mildly confused and wondering what should happen next. Sharp eared she had heard her father and almost remembered getting lost once before. She wasn’t sure that she had liked it and seemed to remember buses being involved. “Right” she said making her own slightly relieved decision to remain. She used her wobbling parents in turn to steady herself as she struggled to pull off the wellies, which as well as being on the wrong feet were rather too tight.

Darkness was reaching in to softly remind them that the day was nearing it’s close. The three of them, the slightly worried parents and the 74 year old child, stayed at the window watching for Audrey to appear from the rising gloom. When the draft from the cracks in their ancient front door got a little too much, they edged away to move back to the toasty kitchen where the kettle had been whistling for quite some time. “There she is!” said Deirdre as they turned away from the grimy window. “Oh no it isn’t her” as she watched a woman she didn’t recognise walking away from the house. By the time her parents looked out of the window the woman, a neighbour who occasionally popped by for no particularly reason, had gone. The neighbour had a strange way of starting her sentences, getting flustered and then leaving midsentence. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if… ” And then she would turn away. It had happened several times of late.

“They’ve left some letters. Postman!” said Deirdre triumphant. It was a Sunday afternoon, but no one challenged her. Her parents couldn’t be sure that the letters weren’t leftover from yesterday. In Turzel House where simply getting a bite of lunch was an achievement, knowing if the post on the mat was today’s or some other day’s didn’t really matter. What did matter was if it was a Saturday but today was not Saturday, because Saturday had been yesterday.

Saturday was the most important day of the week for Turzel House because that was when the dancing was on the television. Saturday was when Deirdre could practise her Paso doble with online support, as Deidre regularly explained to her parents. That the television wasn’t really an online channel and that only one of the dances, if any, was likely to be a Paso doble didn’t really matter. It all depended on which bit of the boxset made it into the DVD player. Sometimes it was the same DVD for several months. For Stephen and Margaret the pleasure and the pride were always the same and for Deirdre as long as it was Saturday when she danced, not much else mattered.

Once she was in costume and had finished her warming up plies and tendus, Deirdre would declare with unquestionable authority, “I’m nearly ready to overload a video onto the InstaApp” and her parents impressed would nod, oblivious to what she was on about. The interweb completely baffles them but their clever and determined daughter had nailed it they were sure. At least she might have. Deirdre’s Paso doble improved week to week, they were certain. Watching her in the shining purple polyester dress she’d found in a jumble sale in 1972, prancing with feathers and ribbons tangled around her plump neck, they feel immense pride, mostly. Watching Deidre hop and wheel is as enjoyable to Stephen and Margaret as watching the dancers on television. They love the swirl of lavish sequined costumes, wild with colour and high heels skimming dangerously close to hems and ankles, yet rarely do the dancers misstep. Deirdre parades up and down, swirls her best, her heavy frame with arms outstretched follows an invisible partner. He’s a mysterious, raven haired and steely eyed Argentinian called Walter.