selective memory as well as fatigue!’
Janeece jumped up to pat the sand and creases from her clothes.
‘Right, this isn’t what I came here for. I can gossip to you anytime, but today I’ve got work to do. I’ll go find Tash and see what she’s unearthed and we’ll take it from there. Then how about a rendezvous at the kitchen table for a cup of coffee and a slice of whatever Tom has managed to create in my honour?’
‘That sounds lovely.’
‘Right, missus, I shall see you after I’ve had my session with Stacey. Don’t worry, Kate, you are doing your best. You know that, right?’
‘Mmmn… But what if my best isn’t good enough?’
‘Then it’s out of your hands, mate.’
Janeece kissed her dear friend on the cheek before leaving her alone.
Kate watched the girl that had become a woman tread the wet sand towards the path. She was so proud of all Janeece had achieved, a gifted counsellor and a wonderful mum. Sometimes it was hard for Kate to reconcile the confident woman that Janeece had become with the aggressive teenager she had first met.
As she turned back to stare at the sea, Kate heard the postman’s van reverse into the driveway and her heart skipped a beat. She didn’t receive letters from Lydia any more but prayed that they would start again – a note, a scribble, anything. This time of day meant a quickening of her pulse, just in case there was a response to her monthly communiqué, an olive branch. There never was, but she would wait.
She pulled her ballet wrap cardigan around her slender frame. These days, her figure was svelte as a result of healthy living and not because she was so scared all the time that she was unable to eat. Stretching her bare calves in the mid-morning sun, she flexed her toes against the edge of the soft tartan blanket. The damp sand clung where it touched. An empty crisp packet cartwheeled along, propelled by the intermittent breeze. Her surroundings were perfect yet the hole inside her could not and would not be filled until her children were once again in her life.
Ten years ago
Saturday was a day of rest for some members of the school community. The younger years and those that weren’t in sports teams were free to idle outside or indulge in a hobby in their boarding house. If the kids had match fixtures, however, it was a school day like any other.
Kathryn folded her son’s cricket whites and brushed his school cricket cap. He was at best a keen amateur, but as per school rules could not be seen in anything less than full games kit. She correctly assumed that part of the allure of school sports for Dom was the paraphernalia that accompanied each activity. He was convinced that if he looked the part, he could play the part, hoping that wearing top-of-the-range kit might make up for his lack of natural ability.
Saturday or not, Kathryn had chores to do. Today she would polish the canteen of silver cutlery – it was seldom used, but best to be prepared; empty and clean the two wheelie bins; strip the oven down to its bare components and thoroughly scrub all parts thereof; sweep the garden path and patio; clean and polish all the windows on the landings and hallway including the glass of the front and back doors; and visit the supermarket for a ‘big shop’, ensuring that the larder, cupboards, freezer and fridge were adequately stocked for any eventuality.
It was a gloriously hot day. Kathryn had enjoyed her trip into town, stopping several times to debate the temperature with the various staff and parents she bumped into, and once to admire a collection of bugs that some pre-prep students had stuffed into a leaf-filled ice-cream carton. It felt like summer had arrived. After donning her sandals and spritzing her cologne she was ready for her next batch of chores.
She glanced at the kitchen clock and was happy to see she was ahead of schedule. This meant she could start preparation for supper and find a few spare minutes later in the day for illicit reading.
‘Kathryn?’
She abandoned the bowl of sugar snap peas that she had been prepping, dropping the sharp paring knife into the pocket of her apron as she wiped her hands on its floral fabric. The children regularly laughed at her choice of domestic cover-up, but she cared little; it felt homely and reminded her of her own