‘Drive,’ Arthur responded.

‘But I can’t drive.’

‘Arthur will drive you,’ Rosaleen repeated. ‘Or he’ll pick up whatever it is that you need. Have you anything in mind? Arthur will get it, won’t you, Arthur?’

Arthur snot-snorted.

‘What is it you need?’ Rosaleen asked eagerly, leaning forward.

‘Tampons,’ I spat out, feeling so frustrated now.

I just don’t know why I do it.

Well, I do know. They were both annoying me. I was used to so much freedom at home, not the Spanish Inquisition. I was used to coming and going whenever I pleased, at my own pace, for however long I liked. Even my own parents never asked me so many questions.

They were quiet.

I shoved another bit of sausage into my mouth.

Rosaleen fiddled with the doily underneath the scones. Arthur was hovering near the door waiting with baited breath to hear whether he was being sent out on a tampon run or not. I felt it was my duty to clear the air.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, calming down. ‘I’ll have a look around here today. Maybe I’ll go tomorrow.’ Something to look forward to.

‘I’ll be off then.’ Arthur nodded to Rosaleen.

She jumped up out of her chair as though a finger had poked up through the straw. ‘Don’t forget your flask.’ She hurried about the kitchen as though there was a time bomb. ‘Here you go.’ She handed him a flask and a lunchbox.

I couldn’t help but smile, watching that. It should have been weird, her treating him like a child going off to school, but it wasn’t. It was nice.

‘Do you want some of this for your lunchbox?’ I asked, pointing at the plate of food before me. ‘There’s no way in the world I’m going to eat it.’

I meant that comment to be nice. I meant that I couldn’t eat it because of the quantity, not because of the taste, but it came out wrong. Or it came out right but was taken up wrong. I don’t know. Anyway, I didn’t want to waste the food. I wanted to share it with Arthur for his cute little lunchbox, but it was as though I’d punched Rosaleen in the stomach again.

‘Ara go on, I’ll have some of it so,’ Arthur said, and I felt like he was saying it just to make Rosaleen happy.

Rosaleen’s cheeks pinked as she fussed around in a drawer for another Tupperware box.

‘It’s really lovely, Rosaleen, honestly, but I just don’t eat this much breakfast usually.’ I couldn’t believe such an issue was being made of the breakfast.

‘Of course, of course,’ she nodded emphatically as though she was so stupid not to have known this. She scooped it up and put it into the little plastic tub. And then Arthur was gone.

While I was still sitting at the table trying to get through the three thousand slices of toast that could easily have been used to rebuild the castle, Rosaleen collected the tray from Mum’s room. The food hadn’t been touched. Head down, Rosaleen brought it straight to the bin and started scraping it into a bag. After the earlier scene, I knew this would have hurt her.

‘We’re just not breakfast people,’ I explained, as gently as I could. ‘Mum usually grabs a breakfast bar and an espresso in the morning.’

Rosaleen straightened up and turned around, ears alert to food talk. ‘A breakfast bar?’

‘You know, one of those bars made of cereal and raisins and yoghurt and things.’

‘Like this?’ She showed me a bowl of cereal and raisins and a little bowl of yoghurt.

‘Yes, but…in a bar.’

‘But what’s the difference?’

‘Well, you bite into the bar.’

Rosaleen frowned.

‘It’s faster. You can eat it on the go.’ I tried to explain further. ‘While you’re driving to work or running out the door, you know?’

‘But what kind of breakfast is that at all? A bar in a car?’

I tried so hard not to laugh at that. ‘It’s just, you know, to…save time in the morning.’

She looked at me like I’d ten heads, then went quiet as she cleaned the kitchen.

‘What do you think of Mum?’ I asked after a long silence.

Rosaleen kept cleaning the counters with her back to me.

‘Rosaleen? What do you think about the way my mum’s behaving?’

‘She’s grieving, child,’ she said quickly.

‘I don’t think that’s the proper way to grieve, do you? Thinking an elephant is in the room?’

‘Ah, she didn’t hear you right,’ she said lightly.’ Her head is elsewhere, is all.’

‘It’s in cuckoo land, is where,’ I mumbled.

Because people keep throwing this ‘grieving’ comment at me, as if I was born yesterday and never knew that it was difficult to lose a person you spent every day of your life with for the past twenty years, I’ve since read up a lot on grief. What I’ve learned is that there’s no proper way to grieve, no wrong or right way. I don’t know if I agree with that. I think Mum’s grief is the wrong way. The word grief comes from the old French word grÈve which means heavy burden. The idea is that grief weighs you down with sorrow and all the other emotions. I feel that way: heavier, like I have to drag myself around, everything is an effort, is dark and crap. It’s as though my head is continually filled with thoughts I’d never had before, which gives me a headache. But Mum…?

Mum seems lighter. Grief doesn’t seem to be weighing her down at all. Instead, it feels like she’s flying away, like she’s halfway in the air and nobody else cares or notices, and I’m the only one standing beneath her, at her ankles, trying to pull her back down.

The kitchen had been cleared and cleaned; scrubbed to within an inch of its life, and the only thing left that wasn’t stacked away on a shelf somewhere was me.

I had never seen a woman clean with such vigour, with such purpose, as if her life depended on it. Rosaleen rolled up her sleeves and sweated, biceps and triceps astonishingly well formed, as she scrubbed, wiping away every trace of life having ever existed in the place. So I sat watching her in fascination, and I admit with a hint of patronising pity too, at the unnecessary act of such intense polishing and cleaning.

She left the house carrying a parcel of freshly baked brown bread that smelled so good it sent my taste buds and my already full stomach into spasms. I watched her from the front living-room window power-walking across the road, not an inch of femininity about her, to the bungalow. I waited by the window, intrigued to see who would answer the door, but she went round the back and spoiled my fun.

I took the opportunity to wander around the house without Rosaleen breathing down my neck and explaining the history behind everything I laid my eyes on as she’d done all morning.

‘Oh, that’s the cabinet. Oak, it is. A tree came down hard one winter, thunder and lightning, we’d no electricity for days. Arthur couldn’t rescue it-the tree that is, not the electricity; we got that back.’ Nervous giggle. ‘He made that cabinet out of it. Great for storing things in.’

‘That could be a good little business for Arthur.’

‘Oh no,’ Rosaleen looked at me as though I’d just blasphemed. ‘It’s a hobby, not a money-making scheme.’

‘It’s not a scheme, it’s a business. There’s nothing wrong with that,’ I explained.

Rosaleen tut-tutted at this.

Hearing myself, I sounded like my dad, and even though I had always hated this about him-his desire to turn everything into a business-it gave me a nice warm feeling. As a child if I brought home paintings from school he’d think I could suddenly be an artist, but only an artist who could demand millions for my works. If I argued a point strongly, I was suddenly a lawyer, but only a lawyer who demanded hundreds per hour. I had a good singing voice and suddenly I was going to record in his friend’s studio and be the next big thing. It wasn’t just me he did that with, it was everything around him. For him life was full of opportunities, and I don’t think that was necessarily a bad thing, but I think he wanted to grab them for all the wrong reasons. He wasn’t passionate about art, he didn’t care about lawyers helping people, he didn’t even care about my singing voice. It was all for more money. And so I suppose it was fitting that it was the loss of all his money that killed him in the end. The pills and the whisky were just the nails in the coffin.