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burst of laughter. ‘Nah, you’re right. I’m awful at planning. I’ll wing it, though.’ And he would, too. No, leave Simon to his
work this evening. I’d ring Hugh’s mother, perhaps. It was her birthday tomorrow. I’d sent a card but it would be good to speak to her, to cling to the fragile thread tying me to
my husband. Perhaps I also wanted to cling to her because I’d lost my own mother.
    Back in the apartment’s kitchen Samson flopped at my feet, tongue hanging out like a small red handkerchief. I boiled water for rice and forced myself to chop peppers, chillies, onions,
sweet potato and the beans I’d harvested from my mother’s vegetable garden, unable to bear the thought of them unpicked. Hugh had been the cook in our marriage. My skills with knives
and pans were limited. When he’d been away on active service I’d subsisted on toasted sandwiches and fruit. Mum had promised to teach me some basic recipes. But now I was on my own.
    ‘Right, you.’ The frying pan and I were old adversaries. This evening I was going to show it who was boss. I turned up the gas underneath it, heated spices and added chicken strips
and vegetables. The results didn’t look bad when I’d finished but the chicken strips felt like pencil erasers when I ate them, while the sweet potato pieces were like wood. I pushed my
tray away and turned on the Channel 4 news, switching it off when Afghanistan came on. When I’d washed up I found that my marking could be finished in half an hour. Still a whole night to
fill.
    I ran a bath and lay back in it to let the bubbles do their work. Afterwards I gazed at a programme about a family of meerkats, reflecting on their similarity to a classroom full of chatty
third-years that I taught. When it finished I switched off again and stared at the blank screen. Still half an hour before I could reasonably go to bed and tick off another day. I was just about
willing myself to sort out the post when the ringing of my mobile roused me.
    ‘Meredith?’ Clara. An urgent tone to her voice. ‘What’s all this about a stabbed baby and why didn’t anyone tell me?’
    ‘It only happened this afternoon and it wasn’t a dead—’
    ‘I am a governor.’
    ‘It was only a doll.’
    Silence.
    ‘A prank, Clara.’
    ‘How could it possibly be a doll? Surely even Simon wouldn’t be that easily taken in?’ She’d never rated him much.
    ‘It wasn’t just any old doll.’ I told her about the reborn, how it had seemed as though it might at any moment wave its tiny fist or start to cry.
    ‘How very peculiar.’
    ‘You’d have to see it to believe it.’ I could hear her tapping on the keyboard as we spoke. She’d be searching the Internet for the dolls. My sister never believed in
wasting time.
    ‘What did you say they were called?’
    I told her again. ‘How did you find out, anyway?’
    ‘A friend’s got a girl in the sixth form. She texted her mother.’
    Naturally.
    ‘My God.’ She’d obviously found an image of one of the dolls on the Internet. ‘How extraordinary. Who on earth would buy one of those? And who would stab it like
that?’
    ‘We have no idea.’
    ‘Well, I hope you’re going to find out and discipline them for it.’
    ‘It was probably just teenagers doing it for a dare.’ But then I remembered what Deidre had said about women with psychological problems turning to the dolls in times of distress.
‘I really don’t think it’s anything too serious.’ I hoped I sounded convincing.
    ‘We’re coming down at the weekend.’
    ‘That’s really good of you, but you’re busy and—’
    ‘Don’t try and put me off, Meredith. I have a responsibility to the other governors.’
    I’d never been allowed to forget it.
    ‘And besides,’ she went on, in softer tones. ‘I want to see you. And Dad.’ I felt my eyes film over. ‘We both do. So do the boys. I was wondering if they could stay
with you?’
    At some point over the summer a tradition had been