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though she wasn’t as busy as when they were in the old house she didn’t seem to have any time. She sat at the window late morning, looking down to town, and then the clock would strike and it would be mid-afternoon. She wasn’t aware of slipping into melancholy but it often found her. It was having to wait to go home. She had time to think about the things she usually managed to keep pushed down in the dark. The white sail came to her again and again, and that terrible word: keygrim. It seemed to be in the clock’s very tick. A swim would sort her out. But she wasn’t meant to. Mrs Tiddy was watching. That was her now, sneaking in.
    â€˜Mother?’ a voice called.
    It was George come to see her. He kissed her cheek. He smelt of the town and she realised how much she missed it, even with the crowds and the cars.
    â€˜It’s such a walk up here,’ he said. ‘However does Father manage it?’
    â€˜He’s fitter than you think,’ she said. ‘Only his hands stop him doing things, and even then he’ll try.’
    George wouldn’t let her put the kettle on. ‘Water’ll be fine,’ he said. He took a cup from where they lay still packed in a box and went to the sink.
    â€˜Nothing there,’ she said. ‘Pail’s by the door.’
    â€˜You’ve no water?’ he said.
    â€˜Oh, we’ve plenty,’ she said. She told him about the leaks, and the chimney, and the measuring men. She was tired listing it all off.
    â€˜Has Pascoe said when he’ll fix it?’ George said.
    She shook her head, but the movement seemed to hurt. There was that warmth at her temples again.
    â€˜I’d do it myself if I wasn’t going out,’ he said. ‘I’ve not caught much this week and the rent’s due. I can only stop for a bit. Wanted to see how you were keeping.’
    She tried not to move her head when she spoke. ‘I’m not too bad.’
    â€˜It’s not like you to be shut in like this. It’d do you good, Mother, getting some fresh air.’
    â€˜I don’t know.’
    â€˜Just an hour, get your blood moving.’
    George was right. Since the move she had felt a little off-colour, a little wisht. When he said goodbye she told him that she would try and go for a walk, for him.
    The next day she wrapped her hair in a scarf, buttoned her coat, and set off. After so long indoors the air was potent; breathing felt like drinking river-fresh water, so crisp it made her head light but without the persistent ache of the last few days.
    She chose to walk into town by the cliff path that ran past the back of the house. It was only a clearing in the grass, worn to dust by successive generations of feet. She didn’t want to brave the road. Cars came down the winding hill so fast and there was no pavement. The cliff path was steep but she could go at her own pace, standing aside for the visitors out for a walk. They were polite, most of them thanking her for not being in the way, saying what a nice day it was, how lucky she was to live here. She didn’t say anything back. She didn’t want a conversation. She had one thing clear in her mind today.
    The path wound down to the base of the cliff and joined the seafront where she turned away from the sea and into the stuffy maze of back streets. Each time she met a workman or a piece of scaffolding she chose another narrow alley, slipping into the passageways still to be opened up to the light. It took her a while but she managed to criss-cross the centre of town. Finally she stood outside the old house on Carew Street. Standing so close she longed to see her kitchen’s cool, dark corners. If she could just get inside, she would be right again. All these thoughts catching at her would be gone, back to the past where they belonged.
    She moved towards the front door but there were several pairs of boots lying any old which way on the doorstep. Her flower pots