“You have grandchildren! Don’t you even want to know about them?” Cathy pulled her phone out and with a couple of presses summoned pictures of Harry and Rosie—she passed it across the table and then when Jane didn’t take it, flicked through the pictures herself. There were images of Harry’s third birthday, when he’d had a cake in the shape of a truck; photos of Rosie at the park, her wellies splattered with mud. She came to baby photos of the both of them, looking nearly identical with their tiny screwed up pink faces. At these Jane looked pained. She reached behind her and picked up her coat.

“What are you—?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this. Don’t contact me again.” She shrugged on her coat in a series of jerky movements, and picked up her handbag. “I mean it. Finish off the wine if you like, it’s paid for.”

With that she was gone.

Later, after a brief crying spell on a bus and a visit to the supermarket toilets to clean up her face, Cathy walked up her own road, feeling marginally better. So, that hadn’t gone how she had hoped it would. There had been no tearful reunion, no sense of two families coming together—just an older woman who felt like she was having her privacy invaded. As David had pointed out beforehand, all the important things were still there in her life; Harry and Rosie, their lives together, and her memories of her own mum and dad.

I’ll get over it, she told herself. Jane Bailey isn’t worth the trouble, it turns out.

The lights were on in the living room, throwing yellow light onto the front lawn. It revealed a pair of scooters—pink and purple in daylight, but gray and orange in the shadows. Harry and Rosie were angels in many respects, but they did have a somewhat casual attitude to tidying up after themselves. Smiling to herself, Cathy picked up a scooter in each hand and instead of going to the front door, went to the side gate—always open when someone was home—and went around to the back garden. The lights weren’t on in the kitchen, so the long and narrow garden was thick with shadows, and she could barely make out the shed at the very bottom. Still, she knew it well enough to get there in the dark.

“All right, from tomorrow, they put these away after themselves or I lock them in here for good.” Cathy dropped the scooters and opened the shed door. There was a smell, bad enough that she instinctively covered her nose. “Christ. Something died in here.” With one hand she felt around for the light switch, but when she flicked it, nothing happened.

Sod it. This is a job for Dave. I keep telling him to clear this place out.

The idea of putting the scooters in the shed with something rotting was repulsive. Rubbing her hands on the front of her coat, Cathy turned to go, but not before she heard something—a small intake of breath, a sniff from someone suddenly very close. A shudder moved through her whole body.