Twenty minutes later, we’d read five stories, chosen another armful each to check out and tidied up while Trev fetched the mum, whose name was Chloe, a coffee. While Chloe fumbled in her purse for enough money for the ripped and chewed books, despite me reassuring her that she didn’t need to pay for damage on a children’s book, I nipped over to the general fiction section and found two of the lightest, brightest, most uplifting novels I could find, adding them to the pile awaiting their turn in the machine.

‘Irene, don’t you think that Hudson and Harry have done a wonderful job in tidying up?’ I asked, smiling as though I was her best friend, rather than her arch-nemesis.

Irene strode over, ducking down and peering around and desperately trying to find something we’d missed. ‘Hmph,’ was the closest she got to agreeing that yes, there wasn’t a toy or a book out of place.

‘Could you please show Hudson how to check out his books?’ I added.

‘What?’ Irene flinched.

‘Hudson needs to be shown how to use the machine.’

‘I’m sure you can do that.’

‘I’m sure I could. But I wouldn’t want to undermine your role as librarian.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Irene stiffly took Hudson through the steps, then repeated it all again at Harry’s insistence. Both of the boys were chattering about how amazing the library was and how much they loved stories and that they couldn’t wait to read these and then come back and choose some more.

‘What do you say, boys?’ Chloe prompted.

‘Thank yoooouuuuu,’ they chanted dutifully.

‘And what else do you need to say?’

‘Sorreeee.’

I suspected these boys had needed to say this once or twice before.

‘Well. Next time please remember that the library is for everyone. If you rip up all the books there’ll be none left for you to read.’ Irene sniffed.

Although, I have to say, it was a tiny bit less sniffy than usual.

11

It had been three weeks since I’d seen my mother. A fortnight since I’d spoken to her. According to Karina, she was still bitter, still grieving, but yielding to Karina’s invitation of companionship, already forming new routines involving morning yoga, afternoon trips out and crochet and Jaffa Cakes in front of gruesome detective series.

While part of me wanted to stretch out this sparkling new freedom for as long as possible, basking in the glorious, wide-open vista where my mother’s strangulating opinions and emotional issues had previously blocked the view, the more sensible part of me knew that the longer I left it, the harder it would become to break the silence.

Besides, she was my mother, and I missed her.

I phoned Aunty Linda and concocted a scrupulously managed meet-up, escape route at the ready just in case.