My rusted-up brain was on furious rewind and it ground to a halt at the Tuesday after the weekend I’d slept with Dan, when he hadn’t shown up where we said we’d meet. The same day I’d had a call from the solicitor to tell me that, as we’d suspected, once the bank had recouped all the money my father owed after the sale of the house, I was still almost two thousand pounds short to pay the funeral director and legal bills. And please call her back.

So it hadn’t been the best of days and I remembered that, when it became clear Dan had no intention of showing up or even calling me, I’d been angry as hell. So I called him. Numerous times. More than that, actually, because numerous sounds like around six, doesn’t it? I think it was more like sixty. And I hadn’t spared the answering machine’s sensibilities, if I remembered correctly. Unfortunately, with wonderful high-definition clarity, suddenly, I did.

The better my memory became, the more I realized Dan McLachlan was probably less likely to call me back than call the police. Again. But to start remembering the details of that particular early-morning haul over the coals was going to be all kinds of embarrassing, so I swerved out of there and back into the present. Which wasn’t much better.

The three of us stood in a silent semicircle, staring down at my phone on the faded floral duvet. The angles of our feet reminded me of another unbreakable three that we used to be and I felt the tepid threat of tears behind my eyes. Gotcha, suckers!

“Don’t worry, Mum, it’ll be okay. That...that was really great for the first time. It...it doesn’t matter that you didn’t remember not to say... It’s okay, Mum. It’ll be okay, honest. You’ll see.”

Norman touched my arm gently and slid his hand down into mine. His fingers curled into the shape of a well-worn spot and I held on as long as I dared.

Some time later, as Norman and Leonard settled in for some practice, I lay down on the bed, curled my knees up to my chest and got to thinking about handsome Dan McLachlan, my father and a house full of memories that sold for a song. I let my lids droop as my breath fell into step with the rise and fall of their voices, and I must have dropped off, because when I jerked awake I was suddenly and acutely aware of silence. Leonard was hunched over in the armchair, squinting at a handful of notes, glasses absently abandoned on his head. Pen in hand, Norman was sitting on the floor, using Leonard’s knee as a support to cross something off a Post-it before handing it to him. I moved my arm to brush some hair out of my eyes and, when I looked back, my son was staring straight at me. And smiling.

22

THE TWO PEOPLE since 2007 who had bothered to write a Tripadvisor review on the Noble Goat pub in Muddiford both agreed on one thing. They wouldn’t be back.