THE BLACKRIDGE HOUSE

For a while the phone calls had been getting more insistent. She might be angry (‘I can’t stay here another second, please come and fetch me home’) or matter of fact (‘Hello darling, I’ve had lunch and I’m ready to go now’) or vaguely confused (‘Where are you? I need to come home’) or simply desperate (‘I’ve just arrived here and this place is unspeakable. Please let me come back’). At such times, even the comfort of the tree with its pigeons and squirrels could not reach her.

At first my mother would call during the day, sometimes several times. Then the midnight calls began, wrenching me from sleep to run downstairs and talk, and afterwards return to lie for hours with a pounding heart.

Usually I would say something like, ‘Everything’s all