Now that it was happening, though, I accepted it with equanimity. There was a certain pleasure in ceding control.
“Mummy. She’s angry. Mummy was sleeping but we’ve woken her up again. Mummy’s had enough of us now.”
I feel tears on my cheeks as I relate this, but I don’t feel particularly sad. It’s as though I’m describing a film.
“That’s great, Eleanor, you’re doing really well,” Maria said. “Can you tell me more about Mummy?” My voice is tiny.
“I don’t want to,” I say. “You’re doing great, Eleanor. Let’s try to keep going. So, about Mummy... ?
I said nothing for the longest time, allowing my mind to wander where it needed to go in that house,
letting the memories out like trapped birds. Finally, I whispered. Two words. “Where’s Marianne?”
Sunday. I had to leave the house at twelve to meet Raymond for lunch.
Glen was dozing in her new bed, and I used the camera function on my mobile telephone to take some more shots of her.
In the final picture, she had one paw covering her eyes as if to block out the light.
I knelt down on the floor beside her and buried my face in the biggest patch of fur.
She wriggled slightly, then increased the volume of her purring. I kissed the softness on the top of her head.
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