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Back When I Was Ten Save as PDF
Chapters (79)
  1. Cover
  2. WHEN I WAS TEN
  3. Dedication page
  4. Epigraph page
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. PART ONE
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. PART TWO
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. PART THREE
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. 52
  61. 53
  62. 54
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. 58
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. 68
  77. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  78. WHEN I WAS TEN
  79. Also by Fiona Cummins

I write. I write for most of the day. I write while Sara sleeps and when she wakes. I write while she calls the ERPPU officers and tells them not to come because she is sick, and when she prepares us a late lunch of sandwiches and soup. I’m still writing when she speaks to her husband and daughter, a stilted, difficult conversation, but she tells no one of what she’s done.

Because we’re waiting for me to finish what we’ve started.

By the time I type the last sentence, the moon is a smile in the night sky. It’s the best thing I’ve ever written.

While I shower and change out of yesterday’s clothes, I leave Sara downstairs to read it.

Her face is wet when I come back. She wipes at her eyes with a torn piece of kitchen towel and squeezes my hand until it hurts.

‘What now?’ she says.

‘We unleash this bombshell on my newspaper.’

I admire your loyalty, your defence of her actions, but don’t squander your love on her. Your mother is not deserving of it when she has no loyalty to me.

It’s cold tonight, the moon bright against the sky – and so quiet here. The roofs are covered in a layer of frost, the air sharp with it. The fields stretch out for miles and miles.

All I wanted was for us to be a family again but I know what she’s up to, trying to claim my life for herself. I won’t let her. I won’t let either of them.

Sorry. Have I spoken out of turn? I can be too frank at times. I’m hurt, I suppose. About her and the journalist. Did you know we all used to be friends? The two of them should know better by now. Let sleeping dogs lie. Otherwise, they might bite you on the hand.

Deep breath. It’s OK. I’m OK. Nervous, I think. A little overwhelmed. But please don’t tell her about me yet. I so want our reunion to be a surprise.

62

Catherine sat at the kitchen table, her stomach a mess of knots. It was too late to change her mind, even if she wanted to.

Brinley’s eyes might carry those same flecks of hazel, the same almond shape of their childhood, but she was not the girl she was. Neither was Catherine. The burden of the past had damaged them both.

‘They’ll probably ask me to rewrite it,’ said Brinley, words tumbling from her, jittery with adrenalin and nerves. ‘And spread the coverage over a few days. But you’ll be safe here, at least for a while. Lay low until the furore blows over.’

‘I’ll have to tell my probation officer. There are procedures—’