My Mother's Daughter

by Ann O'Loughlin

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; General Fiction

Synopsis

County Wicklow, Ireland. Margo has just lost her husband, Conor, and is grieving his passing, unsure how she and her daughter, Elsa, will survive without him. Then she receives a letter that turns everything she thought she knew on its head. Not only has she lost her husband, but now Margo fears she could lose her daughter as well.

Ohio, United States. Cassie has just split from her husband acrimoniously. Upset and alone, she does not know how to move forward. Then her ex-husband demands a paternity test for their daughter, Tilly, and sorrow turns to anger as Cassie faces the frightening possibility of losing her daughter.

Powerful, moving stories of family, resilience and compassion and how women support each other through the most difficult times, My Mother's Daughter takes the issues closest to our hearts and makes us ask ourselves the most difficult question - what would we do in Margo and Cassie's place?

Release date: January 10, 2019

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 400

Sample

Chapter One

Rathmoney, County Wicklow.

Hours passed. Margo sat in her favourite wingback velvet armchair by the window. The rain sheeted down outside, balls of water creating their own symphony on the galvanised roof of the big shed out the back. Wind squealed around the house, whipping in from the sea, across the fields, hitting against the building, driving the worst of the weather against the glass panes, whistling between the loose bits of wood at the top of the bay window, a loud gatecrasher into her thoughts.

Her body was stiff, her mind racing; in her hand a letter. She did not need to read it, she knew every line off by heart. Margo scrunched the letter into a tight ball, letting it roll over the palm of her hand, dropping to the floor. Decisions made in the dark may never last, but she had no choice. Her daughter was sleeping, her husband dead.

Conor’s funeral had been the day before. Crowds shuffling forward to offer their condolences: Conor’s name uttered with a reverence, mumblings that he was a good man; big rough hands laid gently on Elsa’s head, regrets expressed she would have to grow up without a father. Trays of sandwiches were passed through the house, bottles of whiskey unscrewed and poured; beers uncapped, pots of strong tea brewed, music filling the big rooms as night closed in.

She had sat in her black suit, three strings of pearls at her neck; elegant, aloof, polite, a shy smile wavering on her face, a grateful nod for anybody who leaned in with pre-prepared murmurs of consolation. Somebody fended off the most chatty, steering them into the kitchen, so they did not bother her with unnecessary talk.

Jack Roper from across the road, wearing a fresh shirt and zip-up fleece, his trousers neatly creased, had offered to tend to the animals. She was grateful, she did not even know where to start.

‘I can help out until you find your feet, decide if you are going to keep on the old place,’ he said, tugging at the collar of his shirt which was making his neck itch, causing a rash to creep upwards.

Margo had stood up, clumps of tissues on her lap cascading to the floor. ‘This is our home; there is nowhere else we would want to be, especially now.’

Jack Roper’s face deepened red with embarrassment. ‘I wasn’t insinuating anything else; I had a great respect for Conor; I just want to help.’

Repentant, she’d leaned towards Jack, rubbing his arm gently. ‘I know. Conor loved your chats and advice; he said he could not have made a go of it without your guiding hand.’

The farmer beamed with delight as his wife pressed through, a huge lasagne dish in her hands. ‘Don’t be giving this to the hordes of Genghis Khan; keep it for yourself and Elsa. When everyone is gone and all the …’ she hesitated, ‘… all the fuss has died down, you won’t want to be cooking.’

She made to give the dish to Margo, but thought better of it, muttering she might as well put it in the freezer. Margo smiled, hoping somebody had the foresight to take it from Ida Roper before she saw the stacks of casseroles and lasagnes, along with a rich chocolate cream cake, which had been handed over in the last two days.

Conor would have loved this. When they had moved to Ireland and to Rathmoney House twelve years ago after Elsa was born, he’d fretted he never would be accepted in the small community. He tried too hard, making the locals suspicious. It was Jack who had set him straight. Ida was more hesitant but was won over eventually by Margo’s ample praise for her culinary skills, in particular her rhubarb and apple tarts.

Margo’s head buzzed with all the expressions of sympathy; the overheard conversations, along with the whispers she wasn’t supposed to hear; whispers that she surely would sell up and leave Rathmoney House. What was it about those who attended a funeral, that they thought they had permission to speculate on the future?

Margo sighed to think of the days when living at Rathmoney House was easy; the three of them on a big adventure together. Now they were a man down, and they would never savour that carefree time again, not now, especially after the arrival of the letter. She had sat here too long: night had turned into day, a new day when Conor was no more and others would quickly forget him. Worrying, she scanned the floor for the crumpled ball, scooping it up when she spotted it wedged between the front of the leather couch and the worn Persian rug. Elsa must not see it.

Steeling herself and pulling back the curtains so the early morning light crept across the typed words, she flattened out the page. Pain flared across her chest again. It was bad enough a twelve-year-old girl had to sit and see the life ebb from her father, but to think that she would some day have to know the contents of this letter was unbearable. That the letter had come as they had sat waiting for Conor to die, she resented deeply.

Shutting her eyes, she was back in his final hour; his laboured breathing, the tap on the bedroom door, Ida beckoning her furiously.

‘What?’ Margo had swung around, her eyes flinting with anger.

‘There’s a courier here with something official, he says you have to sign for it.’

‘Tell him go away.’

‘I did, but he’s insisting.’

‘Tell him to fuck off. For God’s sake, does he not know what is going on here?’

‘Margo, it will only take a few moments.’

Her face was wet with tears, her voice low and raw. Casting anxious glances at the bed in case Conor heard her pain, she waved Ida away.

‘Mum, just go down. I can stay with Dad.’ Elsa’s small voice was nervous, shaking.

Margo took in the determination in her daughter’s strained face. Placing her hand on Elsa’s shoulder, she let her anger subside. ‘Daddy likes it when you rub your hand across his forehead.’

‘Like when I was younger?’

Margo, tears bulging under her eyelids, kissed her daughter on the head and whispered, ‘Yes.’

Quietly, she’d let herself out of the room, her pace quickening once she had shut the door. Tearing down the stairs, she had seen a man standing, watching the dog working up a serious scratch on the top step.

‘Does the fact that my husband is trying to eke out his last hours on earth mean anything to you? What is so important that I have to sign for it?’

‘This is the residence of Conor and Margo Clifford?’

‘Yes.’ Margo clicked her tongue impatiently.

He reached into a satchel and handed her a white envelope. ‘I was told to tell you not to ignore this letter.’

An electronic pen was pushed into her hands. She signed her name.

Ida shoved closer. ‘What is it?’

‘It doesn’t matter. I have to get back to Conor.’

Margo had thrown the envelope on the hall table.

She had not thought of the delivery again until she’d been standing in black, Elsa at her side, waiting for the coffin to be carried downstairs. Placing her hand on the hall table for support, she’d felt the envelope tucked in behind a vase of roses sent by one of Conor’s more generous clients. After the last of the hangers-on had been pushed out and she’d closed the door on the funeral party in the early hours, she casually picked up the letter.

Ripping it open, she scanned it absentmindedly as she walked across the hall.

Then, stopping suddenly, she read and re-read the words furiously.

Her breath choking in her mouth, she stumbled to the kitchen. Feeling for a chair at the table, she managed to sit down. Elsa’s coat had fallen off the hook at the back door and lay crumpled on the floor, a mountain of napkins was balanced on a small table beside the stove; half-empty bottles of beer, cups and glasses were scattered across the table; a plate of fruit cake pushed into the middle. Beside it, the green glass bowl with apples, forgotten, shrunken and shrivelled. The dog, flopped on the armchair in the far corner, lazily wagged his tail. Cards handed in at the door were in a stack, a list of those who had been thoughtful compiled by Ida on top, so that when they came to them, the thank-you cards would go to the right people.

Shaking her head, Margo forced herself to read the letter again, word by word. Prickles of fear burned through her; her mouth dried up, the words on the page swam in front of her and she thought she was hallucinating, that exhaustion had finally taken over. Placing the sheet of paper on the table, she rubbed her eyes, rolled her shoulders. Outside, a bird gave out a throaty call as the first glimmer of daylight showed itself.

Suddenly snapping up the letter, Margo moved to the drawing room, to her velvet chair by the window. This was her thinking chair, where she liked to ruminate on a problem, the drawing room a quiet oasis for her thoughts. It was here she had sat for hours, before she’d told Conor there was no hope. It was here she had sat begging for strength to break the same news to Elsa. Now she sat here for two or three hours, frantically wondering what to do with the letter, her desperation numbing her brain, so all she could do was clutch the piece of paper and sit.

Forcing herself, she scanned the letter again. Each word compounded the first flush of distress and heartache.

Who were these people to seek anything from her at this time? What they were asking, she could not do, would not do, ever. How dare they intrude on her now? How dare they impose with a request so ludicrous, it insulted her deeply. She ripped the letter in two, into four and then into tiny pieces, gathering every last speck from her lap into her fist.

Margo blistered with pain, loss seared through her, a chasm of loneliness and emptiness opening up, swallowing her whole.

Crows cawed a racket in the trees, the dog mooched in and collapsed at her feet.

‘Mum, why are you still wearing that suit?’ Elsa, in her pyjamas, was standing at the door, rubbing her eyes.

‘I must have fallen asleep. I never got around to changing.’

Pushing her fist into her pocket, she released the bits of paper deep inside it, before opening her arms wide, smiling as Elsa ran into her embrace.

Chapter Two

Bowling Green, Ohio. Two weeks earlier.

Cassandra Richards was so anxious she had smoked two cigarettes in quick succession and now she was fussing about stupid details. That explained why she had pulled out a chair and stood on it to reach the top shelf of the closet to take down her big red purse.

She didn’t even like that purse; Charles had bought it for her last fall. It was big and brash, with a round, gold buckle: she was feeling foolish holding it now, her nails piercing into the fake leather, the buckle digging in to her stomach.

After all these years together, it had come to this. Charles had never even said a proper goodbye.

It was clammy and warm in attorney Dale Winters’s office; the fan droning ineffectively in the corner, whipping at the blind so it clanked against the window sill; the backs of her legs sticking to the plastic of the seat. She felt weary as she sat here waiting, her throat uncomfortably dry, her head aching.

Tilly texted; for a moment everything was normal. ‘Karen says I can have waffles as a snack. Don’t forget tonight is movie night.’

Dale Winters, a short, broad man, stood in the doorway and called her name softly. ‘Cassie, come through to the office. How are you this afternoon?’ He tried to sound upbeat, but there was something about his voice which made her nervous. ‘How is Tilly?’

Cassie looked at him. ‘Good. Karen is sitting with her after school. I told Tilly I had to go get some supplies; I don’t want her worrying too much.’

Dale did not answer. ‘Cassie, I’m going to tell you straight, Charles has decided to play hardball.’

She pretended to look at the framed pictures on the wall behind him, trying to buy some time. It distracted her enough, so that when she spoke, her voice was peculiarly flat.

‘Doesn’t he have to pay child support for his own daughter?’

‘I wish it was that simple, Cas. He’s got himself an attorney.’

‘But what about Tilly?’

Dale Winters cleared his throat. ‘Charles claims Tilly is not his; he won’t pay any child support.’

The handbag must have slipped from her grip, because she heard it crumple to the ground, the buckle pinging against the aluminium leg of the chair. Words caught in Cassie’s mouth, sentences strangled in her throat before she could get them out. Her stomach churned, she thought she would throw up.

Dale got up and walked across the room to the water cooler. ‘Are you OK, Cassie?’

What a stupid question, she thought; how could she be OK?

His voice was far away. He tried to push a paper cup of water into her hand, but she wouldn’t take it.

‘Charles wants a paternity test, but that’s in our favour; he won’t wriggle free from the result.’

‘How could he even question it? We were childhood sweethearts.’

‘It’s only a tactic, darling. His attorney, Harry Mitchell, has a reputation for this sort of thing; it’s a low, mean, no-good Mitchell tactic. The only way to beat it is by taking the test and proving him wrong. After that, we‘ll go after Charles for every cent he has.’

‘What is wrong with him, Dale? We’re his family.’

‘Don’t torture yourself like this, Cas. Mitchell excels at shock tactics to try and force a low settlement. Time to call his bluff.’

Cassie jumped up, pacing the room like a panther in a cage. Snatching her handbag, she made for the door, tearing through the reception to the street.

Dale was behind her. ‘What about this test, Cassie?’

‘What about it?’

‘It means Tilly needs to do it too.’

‘How can he do this? What am I going to tell her: your daddy is so mean with his money that he’s willing to deny you any support?’

‘He’s within his rights; it’s best to comply. It’s just a swab in her mouth, she needn’t know why.’

Cassie thought for a moment. ‘No, she mustn’t know; she loves him, she misses him so much.’

Dale sighed, mopping his brow with his handkerchief.

‘Funny how the whole world is going about its business, but my child’s father wants to turn his back on her.’

Dale gripped her arm tight. ‘We will win the war, wait and see.’

Cassie did not answer, but pulled away, setting off down the street, pounding the pavement so hard the soles of her feet stung.

She pretended she was hurrying, yet she had nowhere to go.

Then, as she reached City Car Sales, she stopped.

Anger surfed through her; she marched across the street, slipping past a pickup blocking the entrance.

Whipping her hair back from her eyes, she walked over to the biggest car on the lot. Reaching into her handbag, she pulled at her cosmetic bag, unzipping it. Scrabbling with her fingers, she pinched a tight grip on her tweezers. Moving closer to the car she kept her back to the building. She knew Charles always stood inside the top window, watching, waiting for the right moment to strike for a sale.

The paintwork was smooth, glossy; sunshine dazzling on the bonnet. Digging in with the tweezers, she scraped curl after curl of paint off, flicking off the specks as a snaky, shaky line formed. Triumph surged through her as the tweezers squeaked across the metal.

‘Cassie, what the hell are you doing here?’

Charles Richards winced as he heard the screech of metal on metal, Cassie pushing the tweezers in for the deepest scratch, dots of silver and blue raining onto the ground.

‘Stop, that car is worth tens of thousands of dollars.’

‘What about our daughter?’

‘Get away from the car, Cassandra. This is crazy.’

He moved to push her away, but she sidestepped him quickly.

‘Answer me, Charles.’

‘I’m not going to discuss this here. Go home, Cassie.’

Her voice was loud, hysterical, shaking. She no longer cared that people were gathering at the windows, observing, judging.

‘Go to hell, Charles.’ She shouted so loud her throat hurt; pain hurled through her.

She could see anger flash through him; red waved up his neck.

‘Stop with your accusations. I have a right to fight this whatever way I want.’ He spat the words out so hard, spittle puffed in a bubble from his mouth.

‘What about Tilly? You don’t have a right to hurt her.’

‘This is not about Tilly. I love Tilly.’

His lips formed a sleazy smile, as though he pitied her. Looking around, she grabbed the nearby podium, still in place from the ribbon-cutting ceremony on the lot extension the week before. It was made of light wood, and she lifted it easily and launched it forwards. It sailed through the air, crashing into the showroom window, shattering the glass.

Shocked silence.

A woman on the sidewalk clapped loudly. Cassie flung the tweezers at Charles, before skirting around him and walking away, not sure which direction to take.

‘You go, honey, the cops are on their way,’ a man shouted after her. A couple in a car waved and sounded the horn. Cassie broke into a run, taking a quick left and then a right, her chest beginning to hurt. Sweat oozed out of her, but she pressed on. When she reached her car, she wanted to dip her head to the steering wheel and weep. Instead, she started up the engine, the car jerking forward in her haste. Shaking and unable to turn up at home so upset, instead she drove in the opposite direction, stopping at the railway crossing on the far side of town. She liked this quiet spot: the warehouses locked, the platforms deserted; the only trains that came through were freight, which never stopped. Sitting on the empty platform, she remembered when she and Charles used to come here, lounging about, kicking and hurling stones.

It was their go-to place. When they were in Europe, they had longed for the simple life here. That was why, a few months after Tilly was born, they came back. Charles joined his father in the family car dealership and life had trundled on until a month ago, when Charles had announced he was leaving her.

Picking up a stone now, Cassie fired it so hard that it hit one of the track’s steel girders, pinging loudly. Taking out her battered packet of cigarettes, she pulled one out and put it in her mouth. Patting her pockets, she searched for her lighter. Realising she had left it in her handbag in the car, she cursed, throwing the unused cigarette onto the tracks.

She had let Charles go, hoping he would scratch whatever itch he had, then come back to her. When, after five days, she called at the car lot, she was told Charles was in New York; she knew then he was never going to return home.

He was unapologetic when she rang him. ‘I’m calling it a day, Cas. You know it hasn’t been right between us for a long time. I want out.’

‘If you stopped drinking …’

‘Cas, we are done, let’s not start throwing blame around.’

What about Tilly? What are you going to tell her?’

‘Tell her I love her, but I need space.’

‘Don’t you think you should talk to her yourself?’

‘I can’t, Cas; the words will come out wrong.’

She had not spoken to him from that day to this, their communication since then had been purely through their attorneys.

Initially, when Tilly asked about her daddy, Cassie fudged, until one day the young girl spoke the words her mother was afraid to articulate.

‘Daddy’s left us, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘He never said goodbye.’

‘It’s complicated, honey.’

‘Did he leave because of me?’

Cassie had rushed to her daughter, gathering her into a hug to reassure her, but she knew her words and caresses did little to calm the upset and uncertainty in Tilly’s heart.

Tossing a last stone, she turned back to the car.

When she got home, the neighbour’s cat was sitting on the veranda; toys she had forgotten to tidy up the night before were strewn in the far corner. Taking a deep breath, Cassie pulled back the screen door.

‘Mommy, where were you? You’ve been so long.’

Chapter Three

Rathmoney, County Wicklow.

It was a grey day in Rathmoney. The mist wrapped around the tree tops and curled across the fields, encasing the land in cloying wet sheets of silvery mist. Margo, who slept with the curtains open, watched as the drizzle shrouded the house.

It was fitting that only a short time after Conor died, the colour of loneliness should visit; the grey was an exact match for her heart.

Getting out of bed, she pulled up the sash so the mist could encase her, too. The window gave way noisily as she shunted it open, the cold air swirling to all four corners of the room. Her mind was racing, going back over the letter, worrying over every word. She might have shredded the page, but the contents were embedded in her brain, the request as absurd now as when she first encountered it. All night she had stared into the darkness, willing Conor to help her share the burden: she was not sure she could carry it alone.

When she was young, she wanted to jump from an aeroplane into the snowy softness of the clouds; now she wished for this mist to envelop her, insulate her from what was to come. She stood, letting the fresh air nip around her, making her shiver and shake even more.

‘Mummy.’

Elsa’s call was long and loud, forcing her to return to reality, shut the window and hurry to her daughter’s room.

‘What was that noise?’

‘I was airing the room.’

‘I don’t want to go to summer camp.’

‘We have to get back to normal, sweetie.’

‘Why?’

Margo, who was tidying up clothes from the floor, stopped to sit on Elsa’s bed.

‘It’s what Daddy would have wanted.’

‘How do you know? Isn’t that what grown-ups say when they don’t have an answer? Daddy didn’t want to leave us.’

Margo pulled Elsa to her, wrapping her in a tight hug.

‘I know,’ she whispered into Elsa’s hair.

Elsa burrowed into her. They stayed like that until Margo pulled away gently.

‘We’d better hurry or you’ll be late.’

‘Are you doing breakfast?’

‘I’ll try.’

She knew what Elsa meant. Conor had got up every morning and made pancakes before school, shouting up the stairs when they were ready, like a chef in a restaurant kitchen.

She trudged downstairs; the hall tiles were cold, the kitchen damp. The room smelled of tar, the leftover trace of the dog’s fart permeating the air. Max the Labrador pawed at the back door; she let him out to piss in the flower bed under the window.

As she cracked two eggs in a bowl, she thought she saw Jack walk into the yard. Lacing the fork through the eggs, she tapped the back door shut with her foot, anxious to avoid conversation. How could she pretend everything was normal when her very reason to get up every morning could be whipped out from under her any day now? What if what was in the letter was true? The very thought of it was torture. The dog nudged the door open again, before flopping behind her as she whisked the eggs fiercely into a yellow froth. Conor liked to lash vanilla into the mix, but she had none.

He did mornings so well; his dressing gown hanging loosely around him, the coffee machine switched on, heat blasting from the stoked-up stove.

Letting a knob of butter sizzle on the frying pan, she wandered out to the bottom of the stairs.

Elsa scuttled across the landing to the bathroom.

‘Darling, hurry up, your pancakes are nearly ready.’

‘I don’t want pancakes.’

‘What do you mean?’

Elsa leaned over the bannisters.

‘I don’t want pancakes. Ever.’

Her face was streaked with tears, her cheeks red.

‘I don’t want pancakes, all right,’ she whispered, before disappearing from view. Margo stood in the hall trying to hold back the tears. Lovely, gentle Elsa driven cross and cranky by grief. Elsa denying herself her favourite pancakes as her mind attempted to process a loss too deep. What would happen if she ever found out about the letter? Would she ever forgive? Would she ever recover?

A piercing sound made Margo jump. Rushing to the kitchen, she waved a tea towel frantically to clear the smoke billowing from the frying pan, where the butter had browned and burned. Catching the pan, she threw it in the sink and turned on the tap, creating an angry, hissing, smoking mess. The dog pawed the outside door again, so she flung it open, all the time flapping the tea towel to clear the air.

When the alarm stopped, she slumped exhausted against the door. She was still there when Jack rushed over from the nearby sheds.

‘Are you OK?’

‘I forgot the stupid pan.’

He stood awkwardly, taking her in; she was in her bare feet and wearing Conor’s pyjamas.

‘I’m off out to the far fields to check the fencing is in order,’ he said.

She nodded and he left, waving to Elsa who arrived in the kitchen, throwing her bag on the table.

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing.’

Elsa made a face.

‘I don’t want anybody talking about it.’

‘They won’t. I had a word with the camp leader.’

‘Everybody will be looking at me.’

Margo reached over, gripping her daughter tight around the shoulders.

‘I think you’ll find everybody will be very understanding. Ava’s mum is giving you a lift and I’ll walk down to collect you after camp.’

‘I don’t like Ava’s mum, she asks too many questions.’

‘She’s the only school mum who lives close by. We will have to make do.’

Elsa shrugged her shoulders, jumping when they heard the beep of a car horn outside.

Margo wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her before opening the front door.

Rita Mangan jumped from the driver’s seat and up the steps, her arms out to embrace Margo.

‘You know I’m here for you night and day, you poor thing. Don’t you worry about Elsa. Does she want to come back to ours for dinner afterwards?’

‘No, but thanks.’

‘I thought you might need a little time to yourself.’

‘That’s the last thing I need, Rita.’

‘I just think if I lost my Roger, I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed again, never mind get back to normal.’ She stopped. ‘Sorry, I’m prattling on.’

Margo shook her head. ‘There’s nothing that can make things any worse or better.’

Rita Mangan smiled, backing down the steps to the car.

Margo nudged Elsa in the ribs and the girl followed reluctantly.

Watching the car move down the driveway, swerving to avoid the potholes near the gate, Margo felt the tears rise. Life for them had changed so drastically and yet in other ways, not at all. Whining, Max the Labrador jumped up, dislodging the black wreath on the door.

Death was peculiar, she thought. It visited with such drama, but exited quietly, leaving nothing behind, only the garlands of loss. Reaching down, she pulled Conor’s name card from the wreath, leaving the rest to the dog.

Shutting the door, she stood in the hall, the grandfather clock slowly ticking out time, carrying her further and further away from when Conor was alive. She had never felt so alone. She needed Conor more than ever now.Who else would understand? Who else would be able to fight off these strangers who wanted to steal her life?

Turning into his study, she imagined he might be there, his head bent over his desk or concentrating on precisely fixing his model trains on their tracks, taking a break after doing the morning jobs on the farm.

The room still smelled of him, the faint whiff of his aftershave and an outdoor smell she liked.

Sitting at his desk, guilt bubbled up inside her that she had shredded the letter. What if Elsa found out years later? She might be angry and aggrieved. Conor, if he had known of the letter, would have roared and shouted, created a fuss, but she only wanted it to go away. Maybe she could sell up, move somewhere else so they could not find them; but how could she take Elsa away from the home she loved?

When there was a gentle tap on the window, Margo jumped.

Ida waved cheerily, holding a warm apple tart in one hand and pointing to the front door with the other.

Annoyed, Margo went to the hall and pulled back the door.

‘Margo, how are you? Jack was a bit worried about you, so I decided to call over. God knows I have time on my hands. Jack does everything on the farm and there’s little for me to be doing in the house anymore. Jack says I should find something to do, maybe a job, but who gives a toss about a woman in her sixties?’ She stopped to catch her breath. When she spoke again, it was softly. ‘I’m sorry for prattling on, I am nervous but the more people you have around you at this time the better.’ Ida stopped on her first step into the hallway. ‘I don’t mean to intrude. Jack said …’

Margo threw her hands in the air, marching off to the kitchen.

Not sure whether to follow, Ida fumbled with the tea towel swaddling the warm apple tart. ‘I’ll just leave this here for you.’ When there was no sound from the kitchen, she slipped the dish onto the hall table and folded her teacloth back into her handbag. ‘I’ll go. Call over when you’re ready,’ she said, waiting for a few moments in case there was an answer.

The swish of the front door before it banged shut made Margo spring up.

She should not treat Ida like that.

Skidding down the hall, she yanked the door open. Ida had only got as far as the end of the house, where she was stooped petting the dog.

‘Ida, I’m sorry, I should not have been so rude.’

Ida stayed still. ‘I understand, Margo, it’s not easy; I’m not taking i. . .