A sheet hangs at a window upstairs. They haven’t had time to find curtains to fit yet, and there, at the other bedroom window, a light shade she’s sure she recognizes. She narrows her eyes, but wind hurries the clouds along; suddenly the changing reflection of the sky in the window obscures her view. Was it a trick of the light, or a beacon welcoming her home?

TWENTY

‘Can I help you?’

Chloe jumps and turns towards the gruff voice that has broken the quiet. On the driveway stands a man. He’s about fifty-five, his hair greying, curly and wispy; broken veins stain his nose and cheeks crimson. His jumper strains against a stomach out of proportion to his otherwise slim frame. Chloe knows this man. This man is Patrick Kyle.

‘You lost?’ he says.

He watches her while she finds the words, his brow furrowing, his arms reaching across his chest.

‘I . . .’ She doesn’t know what to say, thoughts race through her head until she remembers. ‘. . . the postcard.’

He looks confused.

‘In the, er . . . in the newsagent’s window?’ Chloe says.

‘Oh that,’ he says, looking Chloe up and down. ‘Well, you’d better come in and meet my wife, this is her brilliant idea.’

He doesn’t wait for her before he turns, heading past the blue car, down the driveway towards the back of the house. Chloe stands still on the opposite side of the road. Does he want her to follow, or is he going to bring his wife – Maureen – out here? Her hands are clammy in her pockets. He turns around.

‘Well, come on then,’ he says, gesturing with his arm. ‘Unless you can see the room from the road.’

Chloe crosses the road without looking – not that she’s seen a single car since the bus dropped her off. Patrick waits for her at a small gate which leads into a large back garden. It’s laid to lawn except for stepping stones which line the route to a washing line.

‘Maureen!’ he calls. He turns around to see she’s stopped still. ‘Well, come on, girl, do you want this room?’

‘Oh . . . I,’ she starts, but before she can explain the back door flies open; a woman appears, an empty plastic washing basket under her arm. Her hair is almost all grey now, just streaked in places with the black that Chloe knows from the earlier cuttings, as if someone has come along with a fat paintbrush and missed bits. Maureen is still pretty, despite the marionette lines running down the sides of her mouth that give her a rather sad leonine face. But had Chloe ever seen her looking any other way? This is her, without a shred of doubt – this is Maureen.

‘We shall have to be getting this in Patrick, it looks like it’ll be pouring any min— oh, who’s this?’