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and I make soothing noises through closed lips. I’m determined not to give in. I know I’m right.
    Her shoulders start to heave and she knuckles the shabby brown handkerchief brutally into her eye sockets. I’m scared that she’ll start making that high, thin sound from my childhood.
    â€˜Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll look for him.’
    I regret it immediately, but she lowers her handkerchief and presses her sodden cheek to mine and my resentment is shot through with relief that she’s smiling again.
    â€˜You’d better give me a starting point,’ I say. ‘Last known address. I can go to the library tomorrow after I’ve taken you to the hospital. It’s not going to be easy, though, if he’s not from Spur or Sorel.’
    She bites at the skin of her index finger, worrying at it. ‘I don’t have an address. But he wasn’t an islander. I’m sure he lived on the mainland.’
    â€˜Okay, well where did he work?’
    She mumbles something I don’t catch through a mouthful of fingertip and I ask her to repeat it.
    â€˜There’s nothing, Fern. Nothing relevant anyway.’
    She won’t meet my eyes. I laugh and shake my head. I’d always assumed that my ignorance in all things related to my father was down to my own denial of him, my wilful deafness whenever his name was mentioned. ‘But that’s ridiculous. You can’t have a relationship as all-consuming as yours was and not know even simple things about him.’
    She starts scratching at the stitches in her handkerchief, getting her thumbnail into a loose one and teasing it away from the fabric. The handkerchief starts to pucker, curling in on itself like a dying woodlouse. We both watch and I wait for her to respond.
    Once she’s sawed the thread completely with her sharp nails she smoothes the handkerchief flat across her knees, nods down at it. There’s something bitter about the movement, the accompanying wry smile.
    â€˜I don’t suppose this will be any help? It’s his. There’s nothing else really. I only knew a few things about him for certain, Fern, he preferred it that way. He didn’t even like having his photograph taken. When we were together it was just about the two of us. No past, no future, no baggage.’
    This is why I stayed away for so many years. This knowledge that my very existence is no more than baggage , an offshoot from the trunk of her main love. And this is why I’ve always shrugged her off whenever she’s wanted to talk about him. The anger is always there, just below the surface, and it hurts us both.
    â€˜Bullshit you were just two people. You shared a child together. Don’t tell me you were happy with that arrangement, tucked away in your toy box until he was ready to take you out to play.’
    â€˜It wasn’t like that. I can’t explain it to you in a way that would make you understand. He loved me …’
    I laugh at her. Furious. Cruel. ‘What, every third Thursday and alternate bank holidays? He couldn’t possibly squeeze any more love for you than that?’
    She catches one of my hands and holds on. Presses it hard. ‘You know he was married. It wasn’t that easy.’
    I try to turn away. ‘Easy for who? I can’t imagine it was a struggle for him.’
    â€˜Don’t, Fern. He loved me. He loved us both.’
    Bile washes sour at the back of my throat. I cover my mouth, speak through my palm. ‘ Us both? Are you talking about me and you, or you and her? Did he keep pictures of his proper family in his wallet, mum? Did you talk about them?’
    She closes her eyes and rubs at her cheek. She looks exhausted. I’m suddenly aware of the lateness of the afternoon, the chill crawling up from the grass. I gently tug my hand from hers but she scrabbles to retrieve it, pressing it to her chest. We make an awkward tableau, stiff and shivering in the