a pain she had deliberately drawn out and worried away at,
and then push her out into the street and leave her to cope with it alone?
It was 11 a.m. I wasn’t supposed to be drinking, but I wiped away my tears, went into the nearest pub and ordered a large vodka.
I silently raised a toast to absent friends and drank it down fast.
I walked out before any of the daytime drinkers could begin an interaction with me.
Then I went home and got into bed. Raymond and I continued to meet for lunch in our usual café while I was off work.
He would text me to suggest a time and date (the only texts I had received on my new mobile telephone so far).
It turned out that if you saw the same person with some degree of regularity, then the conversation was immediately pleasant and comfortable—
you could pick up where you left off, as it were, rather than having to start afresh each time.
During the course of these chats, Raymond asked again about Mummy— why I hadn’t told her I’d been unwell,
why she never visited me, or I her, until finally I gave in and provided him with a potted biography.
He already knew about the fire, of course, and that I’d been brought up in care afterward.
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