Someone’s back door slammed, and a man’s voice shouted a furious reprimand at—one hoped—a dog.
There was birdsong, a descant over the sounds of a television drifting through an open window.
Everything felt safe, everything felt normal. How different Raymond’s life had been from mine—
a proper family, a mother and a father and a sister, nestled among other proper families.
How different it was still; every Sunday, here, this.
Back indoors, I helped Raymond swap the sheets on his mother’s bed for the clean ones I’d brought in from the line.
Her bedroom was very pink and smelled of talcum powder.
It was clean and nondescriptnot like a hotel room, more like a bed and breakfast, I imagined.
Save for a fat paperback and a packet of extra strong mints on the bedside table, there was nothing personal in the room,
no clue to the owner’s personality. It struck me that, in the nicest possible way, she didn’t really have a personality;
she was a mother, a kind, loving woman, about whom no one would ever say, “She was crazy, that Betty!”
or, “You’ll never guess what Betty’s done now!” or, “After reviewing psychiatric reports,
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