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would be a proper sort of mourning. A
normal
sort of mourning. Instead of . . . instead of . . . well, relief, I guess, but still it does hurt.’ She screws her fist against her heart. ‘It really,
really
hurts.’
    â€˜I think she
did
love you.’
    Dodie gulps and shuts her eyes, picturing Stella’s white hand reaching through the rain.
    â€˜People have funny ways . . . And you
did
love her,’ Rod says. ‘I know you did.’
    â€˜Did I?’ Fallen leaves stick on the glossy surface of the pond as if enamelled there.
‘Fuck!
’ she says, suddenly.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Sorry, but I left the gas fire on. We’ll have to go back.’
    â€˜Fut!’ says Jake.
    â€˜At Stella’s. I left the gas fire on!’
    Rod pulls a face, looks at his watch, his eyes flickering away somewhere.
    â€˜Unless you’ve got plans?’ Dodie says, an edge coming into her voice. ‘Oh, I’m sorry if we’re keeping you.’
    â€˜No sweat.’ Rod pushes the buggy back towards the car. Dodie throws the rest of her sandwich to the ducks, watches the frenzied pecking, the floating flecks of greasy chopped-up egg white. Should you give eggs to birds? Isn’t it like cannibalism?
    â€˜Anyway, where were you going?’ Dodie asks, catching him up.
    â€˜To get my visa sorted,’ he says. They walk in silence. The subject of his trip hasn’t been raised since that night. A lad, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his baggy trousers, zigzags his skateboard between them.
    Rod unlocks the car. ‘I can look in the shed,’ he says, to change the subject. He’s always longed to get in there, see if there are any tools.
    â€˜They’ll be rusty.’ Dodie struggles to force a wriggling Jake into his seat. ‘Not been used since’ – she gets the strap done up and climbs into the front seat – ‘well, since Dad was there, I guess.’
    Dad
. It seems so odd to say it; it makes her lurch inside. She does up her own seat belt. Clunk click.
    â€˜I’m an orphan,’ she says. ‘Do you realize that?’
    â€˜Everyone is eventually,’ Rod points out, ‘and
that’s
if everything goes to plan.’
    â€˜Cheerful. Anyway, it’s all right for you, you’ve still got a mum. You ought to go and see her.
We
should. Even if . . . well, she’s still Jake’s granny.’
    â€˜Can you move your bag?’ he says. She shifts it away from the gear stick and he starts the car.
    â€˜What a horrible word,’ she says, gnawing at her nail, scratch ing through the black varnish. She picks a flake off her lip and flicks it away. ‘
Or
phan. Like
aw
ful, div
or
ce, ab
or
tion.’
    â€˜Shut up.’ Rod grimaces as he noses out of the car park and into the flow of traffic.
    Torture
, she thinks. She flips down the sun-visor and peers at herself in the mirror.
Corpse
. She’s tear-smudged and flushed, hair all over the place. She runs her fingers through the dark tangles. ‘Think I should get it cut?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Let’s go to Inverness – we could maybe get a cheap flight. Jake should get to know his only granny.’
    Rod makes a vague noise in his throat and changes gear. Dodie looks out at the sunny streetful of windows, gardens. A trampoline taking up the whole of someone’s front lawn. A dog trotting purposefully along.
    â€˜I wish Seth . . .’ Her voice hollows out. ‘I wish he was
here
.’ Rod puts his hand out and squeezes her knee. ‘If I could even get him on the phone. Fancy him not knowing about Mum.’
    The sun is smeary through the dirty windscreen and she shuts her eyes.
Seth
. She longs for him in odd places, the spaces between her ribs and shoulder blades, the small of her back, are these where love is located? For years Seth was the love of her life – the focus. If it weren’t for him, she sometimes