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of history and ignored politics. She never voted. She was a Tory by inclination, but would have denied political affiliations with indignation, claiming that she had no time for politicians and owed her opinions to common sense and using her head. ‘Stupid’ was her favourite term of abuse; interestingly, though, ‘clever’ was not a word used in praise. She was more likely to call someone ‘too clever by half’.
    She read books only for good reason, and noisily when she did so, pointing out the personal resonances whereby the work satisfied her — the familiar place or the name with associations of some kind. She had once written to a well-known novelist to ask if a character in her novel was related to a family of the same name Dorothy had known. The author’s polite but acid response had been read to Helen and Edward over breakfast, as they squirmed: ‘What on earth does the woman mean — “… your unusually literal view of fiction”? Is she trying to be funny or something?’
    As Helen, Edward and Louise grew up they had come to recognise their mother’s outlook for what it was. They realised with discomfort that she was not so much egotistical as fettered — trapped within a perpetual adolescence. She moved for ever within a landscape whose only point of reference was herself.
    The Red Cross lady received the commode and the backrest with nicely gauged murmurs of sympathy. Helen parked the Morris and set out to do some shopping. Spaxton, a medium sized market town, supplied all those needs that the village could not meet. Helen and Edward, unfastidious eaters and exceptionally unacquisitive, had fewer needs than most people. Even so, there were occasional requirements. Today, a screwdriver with which to do something about the broken lamp, Earl Grey tea (one of Edward’s few indulgences) and a sweater for herself. She walked down the High Street and plunged into the new shopping precinct, a futuristic place in which the shops had no fronts but opened straight into the shining heated covered walk, like some awkward parody of eastern booths. Her mother walked beside her, in her more strident persona of ten years ago, criticising loudly and attracting glances. ‘I know,’ said Helen. ‘I don’t care for it either, aesthetically, but I see no reason why people shouldn’t have a better choice of things to buy, if that’s what they want.’
    She stopped to contemplate a display of sweaters. Blue. Interestingly patterned.
    ‘You can’t wear that sort of thing,’ said her mother. ‘It’s too young for you. You’re fifty-two. And too short and too fat.
    Louise could get away with something like that, I daresay. Not you.’
    ‘I may be a little more adventurous,’ said Helen. Tor a change.’
    ‘Brown,’ snorted her mother. ‘Brown’s right for you. That’s what you always wear.’
    Helen left her outside and went into the shop. She held garments up against herself and tried to see both face and garment with detachment. The face was — well, unassuming was the word that sprang to mind — neither particularly attractive, nor unattractive either, the complexion better than average, something interesting about the eyes, the chin a touch stubby. She saw age and decay, but did not too much care. She would not have especially wanted to be younger, but would welcome change.
    Brown, she now observed, sent her face into compliant anonymity; she held up a sweater rich with stained glass window colours — blues and reds and a spice of green — and thought she saw an answering glow above. She bought the sweater. Her mother, waiting outside, made noises of disapproval. ‘Well,’ said Helen, ‘maybe. And again maybe not. We shall see. I shall see. Anyway, I need uplift.’ She turned away and her mother, with a curious, unprecedented look of vulnerability on her face, began to fade, like the Cheshire cat in Alice. Help me, she seemed to be saying, save me, keep me. And Helen, with tears pricking her