I look out the window. Already I can see an outline of land. A concentration of light, bright against the darkening sky, that must be Calais. “I’m on a boat to France.”

“With Iris?” Kate asks.

“Yes.”

“Oh,” says Kate, and for a moment I think that will be that. And then she says, “But why has Papa gone with you? He hates going on holiday.”

Really, there was no need for Brendan to go into such detail. Although what Kate says is true. Mam would have loved to have traveled more.

I tell her about the infestation of vermin and the home closing down for a week, which is good because it takes a while and steers us away from the whys and the wherefores.

Down the line, I hear the plaintive whistle of the kettle in my kitchen and I wonder how I ever found the noise annoying. It sounds so familiar to me. So innocent somehow. I think of my tea set in the press. The bone china set my mother left me, ivory teacups, with dainty pink roses on slender bright green stems painted inside.

“So,” I say brightly. “How about you? Tell me everything. How’re rehearsals going?”

“Oh, Mum, it’s all going desperately,” says Kate, and here I am, back on familiar ground, one of my children showing me where it hurts and me making soothing noises as I apply the antiseptic cream and plaster. And even though I haven’t had to play this role for a while, I have forgotten none of my lines—unlike the lead in Kate’s play it seems.

“When are you coming back?” Kate asks at the end of a technical story about lighting and a dramatic tale of attempted food poisoning of one of the actors by an understudy. I think that was the gist of it.

“I’ll definitely be there for your big night,” I tell her with the type of confidence that other people have. Confident people.

“And you’re not to worry about the hotel. Dad will sort all that out,” I add as if this is something I have no doubt about.

“It’s just... I thought you and Dad were coming down the night before? To bring me out for a good-luck dinner?”

“You know, I think you were right about that, Kate. I’ll only end up making you more nervous.”

“Really?” Kate’s voice is quiet. Like the voice of her younger self. Her smaller self.

I take a breath, steel myself. “Definitely. You don’t need your mother holding your hand. You haven’t for years. And I’m...I’m glad about that.” That last bit hasn’t always been true.

“Oh, Dad’s back. Do you want to speak to him?”

I say, “We spoke earlier,” except that I don’t mention what we spoke about, the me running away from home bit, because why on earth would I mention that? Besides, that’s not what I’m doing. And even if it was, what sense would it make to a daughter whose mother has never been anywhere but where she’s supposed to be?