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    Monday came and her new job started, and the woman on the bridge was forgotten as Sarah concentrated on settling into St Sebastian’s – and to her delight, she discovered very quickly that her years of experience in the hotel had prepared her well, and she was more than capable of handling the demands of head cook.
    She revelled in every aspect of the work, from planning the weekly menus and ordering supplies to preparing the dishes and plating them up. Right from the start she took to visiting the dining room towards the end of lunchtime to chat to the residents and get their opinions, and she also tapped on the bedroom doors of those unable to make it to the table.
    By andlarge, she was positively received. Her elderly charges invariably expressed surprise at her young age, but most seemed perfectly satisfied with her efforts. They welcomed her attention, and were eager to offer their food preferences – and their life stories, if she had time. It wasn’t hard to warm to them, to want to feed and nourish them.
    Within a week, she knew she’d made the right choice in coming to St Sebastian’s. It was the perfect fit for her; it was where she was supposed to be.
    And, best of all, she had Bernadette, her cheerful sixty-plus assistant cook, who’d worked in St Sebastian’s kitchen since it had opened in the fifties, and who had no ambitions at all to be the boss. ‘I’m happiest carrying out orders,’ she told Sarah. ‘Tell me what you want done and I’ll do it.’
    Not surprisingly, she knew all there was to know about the workings of the nursing-home kitchen, and was invaluable in pointing out where things were kept – and she also had no problem in rearranging them to Sarah’s satisfaction.
    ‘You’re the youngest boss I’ve had by a mile,’ she told Sarah at the end of the first week, ‘but you know what’s important. The last cook never once set foot in the dining room. They love you here, even Martina.’
    Sarah doubted that. Martina Clohessy would find something to complain about if the fanciest French chef was cooking her meals. She’d already informed Sarah that the beef in the stew was on the fatty side, and that pastry gave her hives.
    But for every Martina there were half a dozen Stephen Flannerys.
    ‘You’re a better tonic than all the pills in the world,’ he’d tell her, cradling her hand in both of his trembling ones. ‘I’d swim the Atlantic for one of your fruit scones.’
    Barelythirty-nine when Parkinson’s had struck, turning him into a shaking old man by the time Sarah met him, shortly after his sixty-sixth birthday, she’d never heard a single cross or self-pitying word from him.
    And there was Jimmy Doohan, who played ‘The Mountains of Mourne’ and ‘Come Back to Ireland’ on his battered accordion when anyone requested it, and often when they didn’t. And poor Dorothy Phelan, who rarely spoke any more, who didn’t recognise her daughter and son-in-law when they visited, but who smiled so sweetly whenever Sarah visited her room with a helping of trifle or a slice of still-warm ginger cake.
    Sarah grew very quickly to love them all. She rose each weekday morning looking forward to getting back to them. The sad woman with the curly hair was called to mind just twice a day, when Sarah cycled over the bridge on her three-mile journey to and from work. The ghost image of the Beetle was there, and the lonely figure standing behind it – but gradually even these faded, and the episode settled into a dim corner of her mind, to lie largely undisturbed over the months and years that followed.

Helen
    ‘M ama.’
    ‘Justa minute.’
    Her irritation increased as she read the article. Clumsy metaphors, clichéd rhetoric, nothing new, nothing to grab the attention, nothing controversial or thought-provoking. She checked the by-line: written by a man, like ninety per cent of the articles. She folded the newspaper and replaced it on the shelf. She could do better, miles