BooksBarbecue
Back What I Did Save as PDF
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty-One
  25. Twenty-Two
  26. Twenty-Three
  27. Twenty-Four
  28. Twenty-Five
  29. Twenty-Six
  30. Twenty-Seven
  31. Twenty-Eight
  32. Twenty-Nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty-One
  35. Thirty-Two
  36. Thirty-Three
  37. Thirty-Four
  38. Thirty-Five
  39. Thirty-Six
  40. Thirty-Seven
  41. Thirty-Eight
  42. Thirty-Nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty-One
  45. Forty-Two
  46. Forty-Three
  47. Forty-Four
  48. Forty-Five
  49. Forty-Six
  50. Forty-Seven
  51. Forty-Eight
  52. Forty-Nine
  53. Fifty
  54. Fifty-One
  55. Fifty-Two
  56. Fifty-Three
  57. Fifty-Four
  58. Fifty-Five
  59. Fifty-Six
  60. Fifty-Seven
  61. Fifty-Eight
  62. Fifty-Nine
  63. Sixty
  64. Sixty-One
  65. Sixty-Two
  66. Sixty-Three
  67. Sixty-Four
  68. Sixty-Five
  69. Sixty-Six
  70. Sixty-Seven
  71. Sixty-Eight
  72. Sixty-Nine
  73. Seventy
  74. Seventy-One
  75. Seventy-Two
  76. Seventy-Three
  77. Seventy-Four
  78. Seventy-Five
  79. Seventy-Six
  80. Seventy-Seven
  81. Seventy-Eight
  82. Seventy-Nine
  83. Eighty
  84. Epilogue
  85. Acknowledgements
  86. Extract from To Keep You Safe
  87. About the Author

But now he managed it. Now he wanted to cut me out from his son’s life, now he managed to call me ‘Mum’ and ‘Granny’ – just to make a point. I already knew little Jack wasn’t my son, but he felt like he was, because I was the one who had looked after him after his mum died and my son left.

But now Jack was back.

My Jack who was so, so different to his Jack. Mine was bold and adventurous, whereas his was nervous and scared of the shadows. Mine loved reading, but his didn’t. Mine was action-focused whereas his loved studying the stars. Mine would never sleep but his would nap too readily. Mine was violent and killed his own dog, whereas his was gentle and loved animals. Mine was expelled whereas his was a perfect pupil. The list went on. If they hadn’t shared the same physical features, I would’ve doubted they were even related.

But looking after my grandson had boosted me because it’d shown me that I could get it right.

Or, rather, that I had, because now it seemed, it was all over for me. Again.

I arrived home. In the kitchen were the ingredients I had laid out for our highly anticipated cooking session: a bushy basil plant, a pale gold bulb of garlic, pine nuts, and in the fridge, alongside our home-made tagliatelle, a chunk of parmesan. Jack had talked about nothing else this morning getting ready for school. Tonight was to be the culmination of our cooking project: home-made pasta with home-made pesto. We made the pasta yesterday, passing it through my KitchenAid. It was messy, our faces were smudged with flour, the dough under our nails, but at the end, we stood back and high-fived each other at the sight of our thin pasta over the pasta tree, the strands draping like willows.

Feeling bereft, I started to put the ingredients away. I touched a green, shiny basil leaf, its peppery smell pungent. I put the plant on the windowsill, ready for another time.

If there was going to be another time.

Then the fear that I might never get Jack back overwhelmed me, and I collapsed onto a dining chair.

Later, much later, I sat up. The back of my hand was reddened and wet where I’d rested my head as I cried. The room was now dark and I realised I was cold.