Dylan must have lifted out the bottle of water which I’d left in the vending machine. I pretended not to hear and scurried on out into the cold night air.

Small events, unbidden comments and careless whispers can cause their own ripples. The stray gossip spiked in me a new determination. Perhaps I would otherwise have gone home, uncorked a bottle of wine and drunk myself into another night of fitful sleep.

Instead I headed for the gym with a hardened resolve to strengthen both my physique and sense of worth.

48

Rebecca

I bumped into Arthur regularly at the gym. Working out became part of my routine and I put down our meetings to coincidence; we were two people who shared similar daily timetables.

It was only on Christmas Eve that I started to question his random appearances. Events took a strange turn and I got pulled into what I later realised were his preordained plans for a future together. It happened because of how easily he inveigled his way into my mother’s affections.

She arrived on the thirteen twenty train into Kings Cross on Christmas Eve. I watched her hobble off the train, weakly hauling a huge suitcase for her seven-day stay. I would tick off the days, hours and minutes until I could help her back onto the train. Childhood resentments lingered; the damage done.

Automatically I tidied my hair, pushing it back from my face and then stretched my skirt, determinedly towards my knees. It would give my mother two less things to criticise.

‘Darling.’ She quivered, opening her arms wide. Tears sprung to her eyes.

‘Mum. Here, give me your case. What the heck have you got in here?’

I kissed her lined and powdered cheek. My role was one of carer rather than loving offspring. There was too much water under the bridge, too many sad memories.

‘I need to get my breath back before we catch the tube. Maybe we could stop for a coffee, or perhaps something stronger.’

It seemed churlish to refuse and at the time, it felt like a good idea. The week ahead was going to drag. A brief interlude would help pass off some time.

We ambled toward the Horse and Pitcher pub. I struggled with the case and my mother struggled with the walk. Throngs of travellers were heading home for Christmas and a sense of purpose filled the air. Carols boomed out over the loudspeaker system, drowned out every few minutes by announcements of train delays.

I managed to lug the suitcase up the stairs while my mother wheezed along behind.

As we entered the pub, my mother untied her silk scarf and stuffed it into her heavy fur coat. ‘Perhaps I could have a small sherry,’ she said.

The room was dimly lit and soft wall lights provided an eerie glow to the faux Victorian carriages. Holly wreaths hung overhead; a token celebration of Christmas. Funeral rings, my mother called them.