Torn

by Gilli Allan

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Jess has made a series of bad life choices and all have let her down. Escaping London, she sets out to recreate herself in the idyllic countryside, and this time she wants to get it right. She wants to lead a responsible, tranquil life with her young son Rory, but soon discovers stresses which pull her in opposing directions ? conflict over a new bypass, between friends, and worst of all, between lovers. Educated, experienced, and pragmatic, James is a widowed farmer whose opinions differ from, and enrage, Jess. His young shepherd, Danny, is an uneducated and inexperienced idealist. Jess is attracted to them both, and realises if she wants her idyllic countryside life to survive, she must choose her Mr Right. The only problem is ? which one is he?

Release date: March 16, 2015

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 460

Sample

Chapter One

A Few Weeks Earlier

Coloured lights were strung in swags from lamppost to lamppost. Lights delineated the stone gables and studded the fir trees on shop front pediments. She smiled, enjoying the sting of the night air on her cheeks as she paused on the step of the Prince Rupert to shrug on her coat. It had only been a few months, but the fact was undeniable. Already she’d begun to relax, begun to see the future with optimism, begun to feel safe – safer than she had for a long time.

She must bring Rory into town one evening soon. He had many childhood years ahead of him – plenty of time to make trips back to London for its bizarre cocktail of the gaudy and the glamorous. For the present, the simple Christmas decorations in this quiet old market town would seem magical enough to him. His happiness and security were all important. It might just be the two of them from now on, and their pleasures might be simple, but life would be normal and safe; on that she was determined.

Without warning the lights jagged upwards, meteor tails zigzagging through the sky. The ground tipped. A jarring thud reverberated up her spine. At first she was too stunned by the heavy fall to understand what had happened. Then came the flush of embarrassment and self-blame. Why had she chosen to wear stilt-heeled boots? Who on earth was she expecting to impress in this backwater? Already, in the split second since the world had tilted up and smacked her on the bottom, she sensed the damp chill of the stone flags seeping through her clothes, reaching her skin.

‘Get up. Fucking histrionic cow!’

Comprehension shocked through her in a sickening rush. Only then did she register the drag on her scalp, the whiplash pain in her neck. She tried to get up; the urgent need to retrieve her dignity overriding fear. But again he’d grabbed her hair and was hauling her up from the ground – her high heels slid and scrabbled to gain purchase on the slick surface.

‘Stop it. Stop pulling my hair, you bastard!’

‘Then fucking get up, fucking c … bitch!’

‘You pulled me over!’

‘Balls. You throw yourself on the ground and scream blue murder as soon as anyone looks at you!’

Anyone? Did he really believe he was one of many falsely accused?

‘You’ve always been a drama queen.’

Why was she so surprised? Because until this moment she’d managed to convince herself she would be safe here, that he would rather pretend he didn’t care than add to the indignity by running after her. As time passed her confidence had grown, the tight, hard knots in shoulders and neck gradually loosening. Now, disillusion took over from surprise. Defeated fatigue weighted her limbs, fuddled her brain.

‘Why have you come here?’ she asked bleakly. ‘What do you want, Sean?’

‘You know! Don’t be fucking stupid as well as fucking deceitful and cowardly. No one runs out on me! I want you to come home. I want us to be a family again.’

‘And this is the best way to persuade me? To make me realise what a fool I’ve been … chase me halfway across the country, then assault and abuse me in the street?’

‘You don’t know what abuse is! I’ve seen real abuse. Women with broken bones, ruptured organs …’

‘Exactly! Didn’t want to hang around till it got that bad. Anyway, we’ve never been a real family.’

His face darkened. ‘You’re a fucking spiteful slag! So bloody superior and sanctimonious. Always making out I’m worse than I am, that I’m not worthy of you and Rory … like I’m some kind of bloody animal!’

You said it, she thought. Sheila had the right idea. Give them enough time and all men revealed themselves as pigs – though that was being offensive to pigs. She wondered where he’d sprung from. Had he discovered her address? Had he been following her? The pub was full; he could easily have been lurking in a corner behind the older regulars hugging the bar, or the gangs of boisterous, bragging youths and raucous girls in their Friday night finery. Though it wouldn’t have been easy to remain hidden amongst the group of new-agers who’d colonised a bench table near the window behind them.

‘You’re the fucking animal!’ Sean continued. ‘You’re the slut! And the second you’re out of my sight, you’re out gallivanting, neglecting your precious son.’

‘Neglecting him? This is the first time I’ve been out in nearly three months. And it’s not like I’ve been clubbing all night! This is a pub. It’s barely ten o’clock. All I’ve drunk is a glass of wine and some tonic. I came out to have a drink with a woman friend and I’ve been no more than a couple of hours. Rory is perfectly fine. He’s with my neighbour. But she’ll be expecting me back by now. You’ve already made me late. I have to collect him …’

‘I’ll drive you,’ Sean interrupted.

‘No.’ Apart from anything else he was obviously unfit. ‘How do you think I got here? My car is …’

‘Then I’ll follow you.’ He grabbed her arm. ‘I’d like to say hi to Rory.’

‘What are you …? Stop! Stop it! The car park’s the other way.’

‘We’ll go and get my car.’ His tone had moderated but retained a hint of exasperation as if she were the one being unreasonable. ‘Drive to yours. Then I can follow you.’

At once she was convinced this was a ploy; he didn’t know where she lived. Perhaps he’d come to the town on a hunch, knowing she had nostalgic memories of the area. Or perhaps a friend had let slip that she’d spoken of looking for a place near Warford. If so it was a dismal coincidence he should run into her on her first evening out. But if he really didn’t have her address she was desperate to keep it that way.

‘No, it’s too late. Where are you staying? I’ll meet you tomorrow,’ she lied, attempting a more conciliatory tone. ‘I’ll bring Rory. We can have coffee and a chat.’

‘Oh no! I’m not waiting till the morning!’ His grip tightened. ‘I know you, you’ll chicken out.’

‘I won’t! I won’t!’ She tried to pull away, but he held on. He couldn’t really intend to force her to go with him, could he? A cold sweat prickled her skin. She began to feel panicky, feverish. The heavy pulse of blood throbbed loud in her head. A fumbling struggle began, hampered by layers of winter clothing. Fighting and elbowing, she finally slipped out of his grasp and he was left holding her unbuttoned coat. Her bag skidded over the wet paving stones. She staggered backwards towards the pub and picked up the bag. Even though it was new and expensive she didn’t care about the coat. Nothing mattered beyond the imperative to lose him and get home to her son, but Sean dropped the coat and was after her, yanking at her long hair again, winding it round his hand.

‘We’ll do it my way!’ He started to pull her along.

‘Stop it!’ Stooped and tottering on her ridiculous heels, she still resisted him. ‘Get off me, Sean!’ she squawked, dipping and twisting her head to relieve the drag on her scalp. Traffic swished by on the damp road; cars, then a van, then a juggernaut, then more cars. None of them slowed. People on the opposite pavement were momentarily interested. A male voice bellowed something incomprehensible, followed by a laugh. No one was concerned about drunken argy-bargy outside a pub. The voices dwindled.

A sudden babble came from inside the pub. Whoever had opened the door was likely to be similarly indulgent to a minor domestic dispute, but by now she was in real pain and the fear was growing. If she achieved nothing else it was worth trying to embarrass Sean in front of an audience. She screeched louder.

‘Stop it! You’re hurting me!’

‘Shut the fuck up, slag!’ Moments passed as she writhed and ducked, scrabbling at his fingers clamped around the twisted hank of hair. A man’s voice chipped in.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Butt out! None of your business!’

‘It is my business. I don’t like to see a lady assaulted in the street.’

‘A lady? You’re mistaken there, mate!’

She began to struggle even more desperately, in the hope Sean might be distracted enough to loosen his grip.

‘Anyway, the slag’s not being assaulted … she’s my wife.’ The declaration was made with the total assurance of a man who expected the world to agree it was husband’s right to do whatever he liked to his spouse. At this moment she broke free and ran a few paces towards the other man.

‘I don’t care who she is, pal. It’s an abuse of power and it’s unciv’lised behaviour.’ Though taller than Sean, her unexpected champion did not have his muscled bulk, and judging by his style of dress and knitted hat, he was a lot younger. She wouldn’t have given odds in his favour if this confrontation came to a fight.

‘Uncivilised!’ Sean spluttered. ‘You accuse me of being uncivilised? Look at you! You’re a fucking tramp!’

‘Call me what you like, but if you don’t leave the lady alone I’ll get the landlord,’ he tipped his head towards the pub, ‘to phone the police.’

Sean began to laugh. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, son. I am the police. And if you’re not careful I’ll arrest you for breach of the peace and threatening behaviour.’

At this the other man seemed to consider. ‘You’ll show me your warrant card then?’

‘I’m off duty,’ Sean improvised. And way outside your jurisdiction, she thought.

‘So, I’ll get him to call them anyway, then, shall I, Mister Policeman? You can explain why you were dragging your … er, wife … along the street by her hair.’

She could have kissed him. He even seemed to doubt Sean’s claim to be her husband. The rest of the ‘new-age’ group were gradually piling out onto the forecourt, and gathering around the first man in unspoken support. Though Sean continued to bluster he was now sounding less sure of his ground.

‘Are you coming with me or not, Jess?’ he eventually asked, as if by now she should somehow have been convinced she would be better off with him.

‘What part of “go away” don’t you understand? Get lost! It’s over!’

Sean took a few accelerating steps towards her. Anger and frustration flared in his face. There was movement behind her, a murmur of resistance. He stopped an arm’s length away and spat out, ‘You’re such a fucking bitch!’

‘If that’s what you think why do you want me to come back?’

‘We’re a couple.’

‘Oh yes. Where one steals from the other?’

‘I borrowed it. I was going to pay it back.’

‘In your dreams! I’m not coming back with you, Sean. We’re not married. I don’t want to be married … and certainly not to you!’

‘Bitch!’

‘And if I have any more of this harassment I’ll get a court order. Your employers would like that.’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’ His finger jabbed at her repeatedly. The last aggressive poke thudded bluntly into the top of her breastbone. ‘Who’d believe you?’

She pushed his hand away. ‘I didn’t believe Gaynor. But I’ve got her address and number. If we’re both singing from the same hymn sheet it’ll be harder to dismiss.’

‘The girls would gang up on me, eh?’ he sneered, grabbing at her wrist. He darted quick looks at the eccentric audience, caution mixed with bravado, as if he yet hoped to persuade them he was in the right. She tried to pull her hand out of his grasp.

‘If we have to. Let go of me, Sean.’

The group moved closer. The rumble of dissenting voices grew louder. As if suddenly aware of his vulnerability Sean looked around at the oddball band of individuals. There could be no doubt now whose side they were on. The man in the woolly hat moved closer, reached forward. Sean reared back, shoulder raised as if to strike. But the first man’s gesture was placatory.

‘You’re not hearing the lady, pal. Why give yourself all this grief? Force never solved anything. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to go with you.’

Sean let go of her wrist and flailed wildly at the man, knocking his hand away as if disgusted by his touch.

‘What do you know about it?’ he roared. ‘It was me who rescued her. Picked her up and stood by her when she was in trouble.’

‘And I’m bloody tired of having to be grateful, Sean,’ Jess interrupted. ‘I’m tired of being pressured to go back to work. Tired of being shouted at or slapped whenever you feel frustrated. And I’m tired of you bullying Rory.’

‘Bullying? He needs discipline. You seem determined to turn him into a wimp. Well, don’t come running to me, darling, next time your life goes belly up.’ He glanced round at the others. ‘I should have realised you’d have found yourself another man … men, by now. Don’t think much of your choice. You must be desperate! I’ll give it six months before you come running back …’

‘It’s not up for negotiation, Sean.’

‘Even if you don’t want me, you’ll never hack it here. You’ll never be able to stay away from London. Impossible. You? Keep away from the shops? I’d like to see it.’

‘I no longer want that life.’

‘Then stay with your posse of weirdo friends. See how long you last. And don’t worry about harassment. I’m not coming here again. I’m not begging! You’re welcome to this fucking half-arsed town! Go to fucking hell, Jessica!’ Sean stooped to pick up her coat and flung it towards her contemptuously. It landed on the ground near the young man.

Sean’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’d just better be hot stuff in bed, son, if you’ve a prayer of keeping that bitch interested,’ he said, before slouching bullishly up the road, stopping just once to glare at the people clustered protectively around her.

Chapter Two

Since Friday evening Jess’ shocked outrage had diluted a little, but now was queasily mixed with the less explicable emotion, shame – as if she did indeed bear some responsibility for the incident. At the very least she could have accompanied her friend, when Sheila had received the summons on her mobile phone about the burglar alarm. But oh no! She’d had to stay on for just one more drink hadn’t she? It was doubtful that Sean would have had the balls to try to assault her if there’d been two of them leaving together. Nor could she shrug off the uncomfortable sense of guilt and embarrassment at the way the intervention by the young man and his friends had concluded.

‘Who was he?’

‘What?’ Jessica glanced up. She’d not noticed Sheila’s return from organising the nursery children at the various tables.

‘Your knight in shining armour?’ Sheila explained. Jess half smiled, almost able to hear the ironic quotation marks around the cliché.

‘Oh … he was one of that band of new-agers sitting behind us.’

Sheila nodded. ‘I know the crowd you mean. Mainly ex-students, art or music college I guess, and all probably on the dole. They hang around the whole food café during the day and the Prince Rupert at night. Even seen one or two of them begging.’

‘Begging! I thought by leaving London I’d be getting away from all that.’

‘Poverty doesn’t stop at the M25. And I really mean busking, though it comes to the same thing. Playing a penny whistle or … there’s a marvellous juggler amongst them, hat on the ground, a few coins in it. So, which one was he?’

‘Wispy beard and dreadlocks.’

Though the group concerned didn’t go out of their way to blend in, they had in fact been more sober in demeanour than many of the pub’s clientele. For much of the evening they’d talked quietly, heads bent over newspapers and documents. Unsurprising that Jess could only distinguish them by their hair. From where she was sitting their hair was the most conspicuous aspect of their appearance. Many wore it long, the women’s either plaited or tied into ribboned braids, the men’s loose, if similarly abundant. There’d been one with a tight ski-type hat pulled down, greasy jelly-fish strings of hair hanging below it, and one of the heads was shaved and his scalp elaborately tattooed. And then there’d been the individual with the fuzzy fawn dreadlocks and a wispy beard.

‘Well, I think he was the one with dreadlocks,’ Jessica amended.

‘You think? Not hard to spot. It wasn’t that dark outside the pub.’

‘But it’s not like I spent the evening studying them. Anyway, by the time he’d come outside he’d pulled on one of those woolly hats with ear-flaps, like a Bolivian Indian. His head looked swollen and lumpy.’

The young man in the stretched knitted hat had stooped to pick up Jessica’s coat from where Sean had flung it. ‘What a wanker,’ he remarked, conversationally. ‘Are you all right? You’re really white. Did he hurt you?’

Suddenly incapable of speech, Jessica shook her head. Fear and fury had fuelled her resistance. As the adrenaline drained away, shock was sucked into the vacuum, turning her limbs to jelly, leaking the sour fumes of nausea into the back of her throat. She accepted the coat wordlessly and sat abruptly on the rim of the stone drinking trough, subliminally aware of the protesting throb echoing up her spine from her bruised coccyx. Stooped and rocking slightly, her hair straggled forward, veiling her face. Through waves of shivers she managed to utter, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘There’s nothing for you to feel sorry about.’

‘What he said … about good in bed …’

‘Forget it. He’s talking rubbish.’

‘What’s her name?’ a female voice asked. ‘After a shock like that she ought to come inside, sit down for a bit, have something to drink.’

‘Jess. I’ll be …’ Her head was still bent, unseeing eyes directed to the bundled coat embraced in her lap. ‘I’ll be OK. I’ve got to get home, pick up my little boy.’ The energy summoned to form the words dwindled.

‘Is there anyone who could come with you, Jess?’ the first man asked gently, taking the coat from her unresisting hands and draping it round her shoulders. ‘The woman you were sitting with in the pub?’

‘Sheila?’ Surprised he’d even noticed her, let alone her companion, Jessica lifted her head and pushed back her hair. Even that slight rearrangement ignited a protesting fiery buzz across her scalp.

‘Her burglar alarm … she had to …’ From barely being able to speak a few moments before, a scarcely coherent gabble had erupted from her mouth. ‘… had to check. Look … so kind of … I … I … I’m sure I’ll be … Thank you … Don’t know what …’ Before his intervention he was just one of the amorphous band she’d lumped together dismissively as ‘new-age’ types. She could see little of his face, pallid under the street-lights but supposed he must be the individual from the pub singled out by his Rastafarian locks. The patterns of his knitted hat were stretched and distorted over his enlarged head; on the crown a sprout of wool stood comically upright like an apple stalk. A droopy beard and moustache obscured mouth and chin. The hat’s tasselled earflaps hung over his cheeks.

They were all eccentrically dressed in multi layers of ‘ethnic’ clothing – jackets over cardigans over waistcoats over shirts, the girls in droopy skirts and concertina leggings, the men in baggy trousers and untied, sagging boots. Though the man in the knitted Bolivian Indian hat still regarded her with concern, most of the group were now talking amongst themselves; one hit a rolled up document into his palm.

‘… And don’t forget that a new road will need tons of hard core and gravel, which they’ll bring in from the cheapest, i.e. nearest, source. As soon as the road’s agreed, whichever route’s chosen, don’t think our “Lord of the manor” will be slow to bang in an application to extract gravel from his land. Or worse. I’ll take bets on it.’

Jessica had seen something about plans for a by-pass in the local paper and read of a growing protest movement. But she’d so recently arrived that the locations of fields, farms, and copses of trees mentioned in the protest letters meant nothing to her. She didn’t know these places, had already forgotten the names, and anyway, had no spare emotion to care. If asked her view, she would probably have said that Warford High Street was so polluted by the noise and fumes of heavy container lorries trundling through its centre that a by-pass would be good for the town and its inhabitants. Still, people had a right to their opinion. And the fact that someone from the ‘alternative’ end of town had stood up for her endeared him, and therefore his friends, to her. They all look fairly impoverished, and she fumbled in her bag.

‘I can’t thank you enough. But I’ve got to get home, to my son. Please, buy yourself a drink or …’ The young man looked at the note she held out with an expression bordering on disdain.

‘Keep your money. I’d’ve done the same for anyone. People behaving like that just piss me off.’ There was a murmur of support from those around him. Not only had she insulted him by her clumsy attempt to show gratitude in some material way, she’d put herself firmly in the camp of the bourgeois middle-class who thought everything could be solved with money.

‘You coming, Planks?’ someone said to the man in the comical knitted hat, and they all began to move off.

‘Why do the young want to look like clowns these days?’ Sheila now commented. ‘I didn’t pay them much attention on Friday, I had my back to them, but I have seen a lad in town once or twice, straggly blonde beard, mousy dreadlocks that stick out in every direction … like an explosion in a rope factory.’

‘Yes,’ Jess laughed half-heartedly, still bothered by her crass offer of money. ‘Sounds like the same character.’

‘He’s been with a girl, red hair done in braids, stripy leggings, and rings in her nose.’

Jessica raised her hand defensively to her own nose.

‘Not pretty and tasteful like your stud,’ Sheila amended quickly. ‘There are noses and noses. Yours is small and fine boned, like the rest of you. Your stud adorns an already good-looking face. Did you get your rescuer’s name?’

‘No. I was so shaken all I wanted to do was rush home to cuddle Rory. But of course he was fast asleep when I picked him up from next door.’ She had carried him home and tucked him up in bed. Then, for the first time since leaving Sean and London, Jess broke down and wept. Ironic that the incident that had at last released all that pent up emotion came only after she’d begun to feel secure in her little rented house.

Still feeling a complete newcomer to the place she hadn’t even known where the Prince Rupert was when Sheila had first suggested the evening out, but it had been easy to find; set back from the High Street in the old part of town. And as she’d left the premises later she recalled thinking that, even without snow, it was a scene far more evocative of the traditional images of Christmas than the commercial glitz of London’s West End. Easy to imagine crinolined ladies, carollers with lanterns, and the arrival of the post coach, its caped driver pulling up his team of horses beside the ancient drinking trough. Then suddenly …

‘I really believed I was safe.’ Her voice thickened, her eyes blurred. ‘I’d convinced myself all that was behind me. I’m so stupid.’ She impatiently wiped the back of her wrist across her eyes. Her voice wobbled. ‘But … it was so bloody humiliating to be dragged along by my hair!’

‘So the first thing you did on Saturday morning was to make an appointment at the hairdressers,’ Sheila said brightly, as if to lighten the tone. ‘Don’t you feel it’s a profound psychological statement to have long hair cut short? Like a transition from femininity to feminism?’

‘No!’ Jess half laughed. ‘Sean liked it long. And I just never want to be that vulnerable again.’

‘Exactly. It’s a statement of independence … of empowerment, even if only on a subconscious level.’

‘Whatever. Though if it’s subconscious how can I know?’

‘And with it you’ve turned a tragedy into a triumph.’

‘Don’t you think it’s too short?’

‘No way. You’ve a classic-shaped skull. Yes, it’s radical, but it’s stunning. The style really suits you … like a dense, dark velvet against your fair skin.’

‘I’m just about getting used to it now, but when Rory first saw me he was utterly distraught. Then he was bolshie for the rest of the day.’

‘He was punishing you.’

‘Funny aren’t they, little kids? Us leaving home and leaving Sean, hasn’t been without its up and downs. You know about the broken nights and behavioural problems. But there have been no out and out tantrums. Then I have my hair cut and he has hysterics!’

‘I guess it’s a kind of sublimation. He can’t express his feelings about losing Sean, but you …? By changing your appearance he’s experienced another loss. He’s lost the person he’s become used to. But at the same time, he knows you’re still Mum and feels safe to express his distress to you.’

‘I should have realised, should have tried to prepare him. Thanks for confirming my worst fears. I obviously am a bad mother.’

‘The problem with becoming a first-time parent is that you get no rehearsals. It’s the same for everyone. Sink or swim. You’re a swimmer. Don’t feel guilty for not being perfect. No one is. Talking about hair, make sure you check Rory’s regularly. We’ve a bit of a plague of head-lice at the moment.’

‘Yuk! Thanks! Just what I wanted to hear!’ Raised cries interrupted the conversation. Pounding feet, then small hands dragged at the hand of the nursery leader.

‘Sheila! Sheila! Jude’s taken the dumper truck. I was playing with it first!’

‘All right, Aaron. No! No fighting!’ As Sheila went to deal with the problem she looked back at Jess and mouthed the word ‘coffee’ with a raise of the eyebrows.

Up till now the children who yelled, jumped, and skipped in front of Jess’s eyes might just as well have been a projected film for all the attention she’d been paying them. But now that she was temporarily alone she needed to divert her thoughts and what better diversion than to watch children play?

The variety amongst them was marked. Some were clustered around the tables engaged in constructive play. Many, unable or unwilling to remain focused, had given up. The free-ranging boys were generally louder and more boisterous, their attempts to seek attention more direct. Some marched about as if competing for the most exaggerated, convulsive gesture. They turned, they twisted, they flailed the air. Only Rory stood apart from the general activity, an observer for much of the time. If and when he did join in he was quick to take offence at some over-boisterous play. Too often his elbows would come out, his brow darken, his mouth compress. And he was not above giving tit for tat.

After a typical altercation she observed him squaring up to Jordan – a boy with light tufty hair and chipmunk cheeks. They looked like a couple of gunfighters from an old style western. Both were scowling deeply, Rory with his arms folded belligerently above his pot tummy. Of the two, Jordan looked the best equipped for the shoot-out. In the absence of a toy gun, forbidden in the nursery, a complete set of plastic construction tools were tucked gunslinger style into the waistband of his joggers. For no apparent reason, Rory gave up on the confrontation, stomped over to the Wendy house, and kicked it. The girls inside, pottering happily with their miniature domestic appliances – like a coven of Stepford Wives – gazed out imperiously at the vandal. Bianca shooed him away. Rory froze, hands clenched into fists, his narrow shoulders raised spikily. Jessica held her breath. But instead of striking back at the offender he turned and ran to where his mum sat, head butting into her ribs. She raised her arm to allow him access.

‘Mummy! B’anca hitted me!’ he mumbled against her sweater.

‘Poor boy.’ She stroked his straight dark hair. ‘But I expect she was just busy and didn’t want to be disturbed, you know? Like me sometimes. I’m sure she didn’t mean to hit you.’

‘What’s all this about hitting?’ Sheila had come back with a tray of mugs and a plate of biscuits. She put the tray down on a side table, well away from the mêlée of activity, and waved to the other women in the room indicating the freshly made coffee. Rory still stood, his face pressed against Mum’s bosom; as damp breath warmed her ribs. Jess shook her head at Sheila.

‘He’s fine. If there was any contact it was unintended. Bianca just flapped her hand at him,’ she whispered.

Sheila called out to another girl who seemed at a loose end. ‘Sasha, why don’t you show Rory how good you are at painting?’

Rory raised his head from its humid nest and stared at Sasha suspiciously.

‘Come on!’ Sasha said, imperiously, ‘You can look at my painting of Bluebell.’

‘You sure he’s all right?’ Sheila queried.

‘Just being over sensitive.’ It was impossible for Jess to resist making the boy/girl comparison as her son followed Sasha over to the easels. Rory was shorter and sturdier than his willowy companion and though similarly dark, the girl’s jaw-length hair was curlier than his.

‘How is he generally these days?’ Sheila handed over a mug. ‘Be careful, it’s hot.’

‘Much better than he was.’

‘Sleeping any better?’

‘Seems to be … touch wood.’ She smiled but felt her