The Waggon: A Poignant and Very Human Tale of Love, Loss and a Painted Caravan

By Lesley Atherton

'The Waggon' is finally here!
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Blue, a 14-year-old schoolgirl, and her mum, Ellen, lose the most important man in their lives. Reuben was a dad and husband, and when he passed away he left more than the usual legacy.
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Before his illness struck him down for the final time, Reuben had almost completed his life's pleasure - the restoration and decoration of an old painted caravan that he called 'The Waggon'.
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It is now up to Ellen and Blue to attempt a journey in the waggon, on a route predetermined by Reuben... and to confront and overcome some of the more challenging elements of loss, teenage life, shocks and surprises.
​
This is a novel that's in some ways an easy holiday read, but is beautiful and full of psychological insight.

Books By This Author:
Conflict Management: Novelettes For Discerning Readers
Feet On The Table: An Enormous Book Of Tiny Stories
Life’s a Mess... and Then You Die: Hoarding, Writing and Lost Family
Melissa And The Mobility Scooter: And Other Bedtime Stories
The Waggon
Car Crash Dummy

​​​​​​​Published by Words Are Life. Do support independent publishers!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lesley Atherton
• Release date: Jul 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005352141

Lesley Atherton

I’ve always been a writer. I was the kind of kid who would create little books of my own, and I also did quite well at school when it came to writing projects and exams.I’ll always remember my lovely English teacher, Mrs Nash, giving us an assignment. We had to read Seamus Heaney’s poem ‘Blackberry Picking’ and then were told to write our own version.My resultant poem, though simple, used some strong words and brought positive and glowing reactions from Mrs Nash, both at the time and later in her literary flourish of an end of year report card in which she told me how much my writing had blossomed and would soon become wonderful. I loved that teacher so much. She was awesome, kind, creative and a little eccentric. Unfortunately, I don’t have her report anymore, and I don’t have the poem either. I just remember that it began something like this:Blackberry picking, sweet and sticky, Dum de dum de dum de dum, Like a gaping wound.Later in life, I married a writer who became a publisher and helped him out with office and business management. I loved the writing-related work that came with it too - reviews, articles, copywriting and editing, proofreading and the rest of the whole shenanigans. Yep, I loved all that.Later, when we split up and the children were a little older and more self-reliant, writing seemed to become my ‘thing’. It was what I wanted and needed to do.When I got a little braver I saw a poster on a bookshop wall. It was for a writing group, and it gave Michelle’s email as a contact. I emailed her a few breathily nervous messages, then we agreed to meet at a local café. It was a lovely and unforgettable meeting. She directed me to join a writing group and this was what I did. Joining the group expanded my new writing confidence massively.So I began publishing more. Writing a little less (temporarily). And Scott Martin Productions was born.The company became Words Are Life as I moved away from publishing fiction (I am truly appalling at selling things, and nonfiction sells itself to some extent). I carried on writing, ready to publish.So, that’s my history. Good at editing, not bad at imagination and writing skills, but bloody awful at selling stuff.​In recent years I’ve published ‘Melissa And The Mobility Scooter’, which is a gorgeous book of bedtime stories for children (not just girls!) between 5 and 8. Older children will enjoy reading ‘Melissa’ themselves.I’ve also published a collection of novelettes called ‘Conflict Management’. It’s an interesting collection of stories about good and evil twins, managing autism and long term illness, making serious life decisions, ghostwriting, revenge, and working with a male supermodel.My first novel originally came out under the name, ‘Past, Present, Tense’, then was slightly re-written under the name ‘Life’s a Mess... And Then You Die’. I love this book. It’s all about hoarding, family lost and found, dysfunctional relationships, vengeance and hope for the future.And, I've also written what might just be the largest, floppiest book of empowering short stories ever created. It is called 'Feet On The Table'; and is the result of many, many years of work.At the time of writing, I’ve just published my second novel, ‘The Waggon’. I normally don’t have much confidence in my work but I believe this to be the best thing I’ve ever written! It came about as the final assignment of a Masters Degree in Creative Writing. This was back before Covid times, and I was due to publish it, but lost a lot of creative confidence when I was given a Merit on the course. I genuinely believed the writing deserved a better grade, which is unlike me. Unsure about how to progress, I gave it to a number of beta readers for feedback. It is their feedback that’s enabled me to rewrite the book. I hope it is deserving of a Distinction grade, even if it is only in my own head! Better late than never.I have also just published short ebooks, 'Crash Test Dummy', 'Could This Be An Office Romance?', and 'Bigheart'. Also, my books, Can't Sleep, Won't Sleep - short story anthologies available here on Smashwords.So, that’s where I am at the moment. I’m publishing on a few different platforms and am concentrating on editing and writing. There aren’t enough hours in the day to write all I want to write, but it’s getting a little easier every day.

Book preview

PART 1

Survival

Survival and wonderment, Reuben said.

They’re what count.

I nodded blankly and shifted away from him a little. I was trying to read The Radio Times again. We purchased it once a year for the Christmas and New Year programming and were always determined to get our money’s worth. I sighed. It was only December 29th, so surely, they couldn’t have run out of good telly just yet?

I reached for another coconut Quality Street and washed down its cloying sweetness with hot coffee.

This was what Christmas is all about, I sighed.

Reuben shook my shoulder and gestured conspiratorially towards our daughter.

…And, even better, daddy’s got Blue a present! he announced.

Blue, our giddy daughter, had been forward-rolling and attempting experimental dance positions. Now she shrieked, and with the floppy blonde fringe covering her eyes, she was as sweet as a begging Afghan Hound puppy. She picked up her metallic blue ukulele and span around a few times with arms outstretched and eyes closed. Expressive gymnastic dance with a ukulele was a whole new creative genre.

Where’s the present? she demanded.

Patience, Blue. Mummy’s got a present too, haven’t you, Ellen?

I looked up from the magazine. Reuben grinned and wiped his hands on his old Levi’s, then struggled up from Blue’s usual space on the sofa, grumbling as he did so.

His hair was pale and floppy like Blue’s.

His Christmas t-shirt: a unicorn being ridden with enthusiasm by a grinning Santa Claus.

His gait was slow and stilted.

Considering he was a physically fit man who wasn’t yet in his fifties, he seemed sluggish and not quite right.

You’re not looking yourself today. You OK?

Christmas bug. Crippling me, but I’ll brave it.

My dad’s walking like an old woman! Blue shrieked again as Reuben dug around behind the furniture and proudly emerged with a green carrier bag.

He sat down again, sighed and laid the bag on his knee with a flourish. He always did enjoy a little bit of drama.

Come on then… Come and see!

And with those words, Reuben pulled out a scruffily wrapped gift and handed it to Blue.

Blue grimaced back. Daddy, that looks rubbish.

She laid the package back on her dad’s knee, changed the television channel and went back to strumming her ukulele. The familiar strains of Coronation Street wafted from the television’s speakers, and I looked back at Reuben. We both eye rolled.

You never know what treasures may lie within, he said.

Reuben nudged me and handed me a box of just a few inches square. It had been wrapped in expensive-looking bronze-gold paper and trimmed with dark red and forest green ribbons. Professionally done, I reckoned. It seemed a shame to disturb such an immaculate creation.

Any ideas, Ellen?

I shook my head, then shook the box. It wasn’t that heavy, and it didn’t rattle either. I humoured my husband and ripped off the wrapping with my usual oohs and aahs.

I painted it for mummy, Reuben told Blue, then grinned at me once I held the gift in my hands. Pretty, isn’t it?

It is.

Inside the wrapping was an enamelled tin cup decorated with bluebells, daisies, sunflowers, snowdrops and a whole border’s worth of flowers that never would have bloomed simultaneously.

Reuben, it’s lovely, but what is it for?

You’ll see, he said. You’ll see.

Blue was upside down again. Her straw-gold hair tumbled onto the Christmas-cleaned carpet, and she counted out loud to ten before returning her feet to the floor.

Reuben cleared his throat.

Come on, kid. It’s time for you to open your pressie.

Blue shuffled over to her dad and pulled apart the flimsy layers. The design on Blue’s gift wasn’t the same as mine, but it was equally pretty.

We were both the bewildered recipients of Reuben-painted enamel mugs.

Our quizzical expressions mirrored each other.

They’re for the future, Reuben said.

I shook my head in confusion and watched as my normally indestructible husband fell to the floor, clutching his abdomen and banging his head on the coffee table.

Reuben, Reuben! I yelled, dashing over to pick him up.

His face was crumpled with pain: yellow skin traced with trickles of crimson, like a scoop of raspberry ripple.

Bring me the phone, Blue, I shouted as our not-so-little girl righted herself from yet another headstand and stared in horror at her dad.

We need to ring for an ambulance!

Survival and wonderment. They’re what count.

That’s what Reuben had said three years ago.

He fought so hard.

But I’m not sure I’ll ever feel wonderment again.

And Reuben definitely hadn’t counted on not surviving.

What?

Prostate cancer had been Reuben’s killer. Powerless, the three of us had watched it attack every inch of his being.

And we could demand neither revenge nor justice.

Yet, two days after Reuben died and three years after his terrifying New Year cancer diagnosis, I found myself in his solicitor’s office. Though the practice was situated in a large Edwardian terraced building, the interior was anything but traditional, and the clear surfaces and bare walls left me thinking of a cell or a just-robbed art gallery.

In the Agatha Christie novels that Reuben and I had loved so much, attendees at will readings would be dressed to kill, and one of the twenty would inevitably be the dead person’s killer. I’d known that modern procedures would be nothing like the Agatha Christie novels in which twenty people gathered into an oak-panelled room and seated themselves around a huge dark table.

It was immediately obvious why Reuben had chosen Anthea Berry from Berry and Blackshaw as executor of his estate.

Good to meet you, Mrs Weatherley, Anthea said as she gestured towards the white leather captain’s chair in front of her desk.

Do take a seat.

Thank you.

Well, I’m sorry to hear about your husband. I hope you won’t be offended if we get right on with discussing why you’re here. You see, Reuben’s strong character extended into his after-death wishes.

Anthea gave me a sideways glance.

Do you already know about those wishes?

I don’t think so.

Anthea nodded. She looked every inch a competent, charming, efficient professional. Her cream t-shirt toned down her dark red suit, the combination being both smart and restrained. I’d found myself a little envious of her sleek, black hair and ran embarrassed fingers through my own mess. But, at the same time, I sensed a little mischief and relaxed a little.

After many days of almost constant slouching or lying down, I was surprised how sitting bolt upright proved an unaccustomed effort. My smart clothes were too tight, and the posture pained my stomach muscles. I covered my discomfort by fidgeting on the eagerly rotating leather and picked nervously at the seat’s piping.

Andrea began to talk again.

Reuben leaves you virtually his entire estate and the contents of personal and joint savings accounts and investments. Of course, I don’t know the precise value of these accounts as of today’s date, but I believe you already have access to all this information.

I nodded. My right knee twitched. My left eye accompanied.

Specifically, Reuben leaves his daughter, Christabel Blue Weatherley, an orange Tanglewood acoustic guitar and his Roland TD electronic drum kit in the hope that she might pick up where she left off before she decided against taking her musical scholarship.

It raised a smile, but Blue playing drums? Good grief. Still, at least you could plug headphones into the electronic kits or turn down the volume.

"Reuben has also mentioned his father in the will and would like him to be given a landscape artwork titled Rooftops. I’ve been led to believe that Reuben’s mother painted this as a gift to her son, and it was an artwork much admired by her husband. On the older Mr Weatherley’s death, this painting will revert to you, or Christabel.’

Blue, I nodded

I’d been pre-warned by Reuben about the fate of Rooftops.

But, Ellen, there’s rather an unusual clause here. Reuben isn’t stating that this is a condition of you receiving any of his estate. That’s yours without any question. However, he politely requests that you fulfil two conditions upon his death.

I’d nodded again, as it seemed the only voluntary action available to me. Involuntary actions were no problem. My palms burned. My left eye pulsed and flickered. My finger picked at the chair’s piping.

What the hell could the clause be? Not to marry again? To take care of Reuben’s father? I thought I’d been prepared for anything and everything. But no amount of imagination could have prepared me for Anthea Berry’s next words.

The first clause is not so unusual. It involves sprinkling your late husband’s ashes at several specified locations throughout the north of England and southern Scotland.

OK, I said, nodding enthusiastically and somewhat relieved. We could easily do that during the next school holiday week. Returning to Reuben’s home village in the Borders will be nice. Scotland always meant a lot to him. Well, to all of us.

That is an option, Ellen, but it isn’t what he has asked from you. Your husband didn’t just provide a list of where he’d like you to sprinkle his ashes; he produced a map and a plan. Following the plan to the letter would take quite a few months of travel.

But, I interrupted, it won’t take months to drive to a few places and sprinkle ashes. We could do it in a couple of weekends if it can’t wait till the school holidays.

"Yes, Mrs Weatherley, if that was all he asked, but it will take quite some time if you do undertake the task in the precise way Mr Weatherley requests.’

Anthea Berry glanced down at the notes on her desk, lifted her head back up, blinked and pushed one side of her silky black hair behind her ear before continuing.

Rueben’s clearly-stated wishes are that you and your daughter, Christabel… sorry, Blue, take a trip in a painted wooden caravan which he refers to as The Waggon. He has provided specifics of the route he’d like you to take and the sites where he’d like you both to sprinkle his ashes.

Miss Berry again straightened the notes on her desk, stood slowly, smoothed her skirt and gave me a now-you-see-it half-smile.

I understand that Reuben’s request may have come as a shock, but I advise you to have a good think about it before making a decision.

She then handed me a large manilla envelope from the bottom of her document pile.

Inside the envelope is a copy of Reuben’s will and quite a few items you’ll need if you decide to go ahead with his requested journey: maps, directions, locations and your husband’s reflections on the planned journey. It also contains the address and the keys of the lock-up where the waggon is currently stored.

That was when I stood and silently left her office.

My anger struggled to contain itself.

My frustration punched the rock-hard door.

The bastard. How dare he force this on me? How dare he?

Reuben was gone.

I was utterly furious with him.

And I missed him like hell.

With fist bloodied and thoughts abstract and furious, I’d been tempted to rip up the threatening brown envelope. Instead, I’d rushed from the building, leaving Anthea and her receptionist staring in my wake.

I stumbled onto the pavement and glanced around me, disoriented by tears and rage. That would do. Nestled between Primark and a non-corporate charity shop was The Sparrow pub.

I hurried towards its doorway, and once inside its comforting confines, I ordered a single malt with soda water.

I set my paperwork onto the rickety, circular table and sat down. Taking a hearty sip, I opened the envelopes within envelopes, each spewing its contents like a set of Russian dolls. Matryoshkas.

Matryoshkas. That’s what Reuben called me when I was swollen and overly ready to birth Blue. She was a person within my person, and we speedily became two. We were his separated Russian dolls. I shivered as I remembered him talking excitedly about becoming a granddad someday and having a matching set of three.

That was another life event that cancer denied him.

Of course, there should have been another doll, but our youngest child, Blue’s baby brother James, had been cruelly taken from those who loved him. He’d been only six months old when I’d woken, unusually serene and rested, with a waking thought of James and a vague wondering why he hadn’t yet demanded his milk. I’d walked over to his cot, smiling in anticipation of my baby son’s welcoming gurgle, and there he was. Cold but still smiling.

Thinking of James and Reuben wasn’t going to help anything now.

I forced back my tears and picked up the first Russian doll envelope. It held only a small card. On one side was taped the lock-up’s key. Reuben had written the address on the other. I was surprised to recognise it as a semi-rural residential area on the other side of the city, not far from Reuben’s office.

I checked his notes. Reuben claimed he had originally intended the waggon to be a surprise vehicle for a family holiday; hence the Christmas presents of folk art-styled mugs and later, unexplained headscarves, cooking pots and hoop earrings. As if he had been appointed as the props and costume manager for a cliched stage play.

But Reuben’s illness had cruelly intervened. Latterly, he’d continued the restoration when he was able and worked on his recovery so that we could take a trip together. And if that hadn’t been possible, he’d made it so Blue, and I would travel in the waggon to sprinkle his ashes.

A journey in a waggon.

With a horse.

I shook my head, and, pushing my hair from my eyes, I noticed something Miss Berry hadn’t mentioned – instructions on retrieving the horse from the person currently housing it.

Faith.

My best friend.

My anger bubbled and burned.

So, the selfish bastard thought it wasn’t enough to die on me. Not only did he demand I take leave from a job I adore to pander to his selfish wishes, but he had forced my oldest friend in on the conspiracy.

I refuse to do this.

Like some form of aggressive mantra playing around my head, I couldn’t get the thought out of my mind.

I refuse to do this.

I slammed my glass down on the table, gathered the paperwork and stuffed it into my bag. Time to go home.

Of course, I opened a bottle as soon as I laid my bag down on the kitchen table, and when Blue returned from school, we treated each other no differently than every other day – I ignored her just as she ignored me.

Later, when the drink had calmed me, and I wanted to talk, Blue was gone.

Most recent nights, in varying states of solitary anxiety, I’d pick up the phone and call Faith, but I wasn’t ready to call her yet. After today’s revelation, I wasn’t sure how ready I would ever be.

It felt as if everyone knew about the waggon – apart from me.

It felt as if they were laughing at me behind my back.

And, if Reuben had kept this secret from me, what others might I discover?

Breathe

Back home and recovering a little from the shock, I poured myself an extra-large Glenfiddich and topped it up with a particularly fine designer ginger ale, given that Reuben was no longer here to tease me for such a travesty.

I was in Reuben’s studio office, absorbing his essence. I took a deep breath and an even deeper swig of what Reuben used to call my ginger lifesaver as my shaking hands opened his envelope for the second time.

Methodically, I laid everything out on Reuben’s desk and stared blankly at it all.

I finished my drink and poured another, then traced the outline of Reuben’s words with my split index fingernail.

I’d begun my compassionate leave three weeks before Reuben’s death, and since then, there had no longer been any reason to dress up, enhance my appearance cosmetically, or to even make it out of the front door. Apart from the funeral and today.

I wiped my tears with Reuben’s green tartan shirt. It had been draped over the back of his chair, patiently awaiting his return, and I buried my head into its flannel folds. It still smelled of him: well, how he used to smell before cancer got him, infusing his entire being with its musty, sharp mothball tang.

I couldn’t hide my confusion.

Why hadn’t he told me about the waggon? Why not tell me about the waggon so it wouldn’t have come as such a shock? After all, one of the only advantages of a drawn-out demise is that it offers ample opportunity for your loved one to sort out their affairs way in advance of their passing.

And I knew so much in advance. Reuben had planned everything and shared it all with me. I’d no reason to think there were any exceptions.

He had already selected a walnut coffin with dark green silk lining and had made it clear that a church service was entirely out of the question. Instead, he’d planned his remembrance wake in what he called Reubenesque detail. Shunning a traditional ceremony, he’d pre-booked the entire two storeys of The Three Barrels, a traditional inn. All the guests at Reuben’s wake were to be presented with an old-style CD compilation he’d created – an eclectic mix of old tunes to remember him by: Lou Reed, Emerson Lake & Palmer, Madness, Incredible String Band, Linkin Park, Bob Dylan…

But what had thrown me were the classical music choices he’d also included. As I traced my finger down each line of the playlist, I knew he’d selected every piece for me, his musician wife. Without that CD playing on a constant loop on the pub’s stereo system, I might have felt obliged to perform at the wake. Reuben had known me well enough to anticipate that my fingers would paralyse in grief and that my throat would constrict. I hadn’t played an instrument with joy since that fateful Christmas when my husband crumpled in agonised fury.

I suspected that my musician colleagues would likely seek the comfort of their musicality during periods of difficulty and grief. But my grief had numbed and blanketed, allowing not a sliver of brightness to emerge and not a note of musical joy to be experienced.

Reuben’s CD playlist had been headed by Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A as a piece to welcome guests – or were they mourners – into the pub. Later, the CD included extracts from Faure’s Requiem.

Reuben had also ensured that the bar staff play his favourite clarinet piece, Aaron Copland’s technically challenging Clarinet Concerto. He asked that it be played as loudly as their electronics would allow.

Organisation didn’t help.

Memories hindered.

Nothing remained as a motivator.

Not even Blue.

Not even the bottle, though I gave it plenty of opportunities.

Friends assured me that work was the best solution – its structure and routine would likely provide comfort. But I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready.

I scanned Reuben’s office. Paintings he’d purchased for his gallery shop, posters in rolls, contracts with artists, mock-ups of planned shows that would never happen, and (worst of all) the estate agent’s sheet from when the gallery was advertised as a going concern. Sure, it was a fantastic business opportunity for the right person, but I wished the blurb could also express just how important it was to our little family.

I looked again at the pile of papers on the desk.

Without understanding most of the envelope’s contents, I folded them carefully, replaced them in the envelope and placed it in the desk drawer.

Telling

Blue crashed into the living room, throwing her school bag on the floor and herself onto the sofa. Her skin, usually blemish-free, was blotchy with vivid red patches.

Bad day at school?

Nothing.

Well…?

Again, silence.

Blue, I said. My voice shook.

I need to tell you something. You know how I went to see dad’s solicitor this morning?

She turned, and with that narrow-eyed, sullen stare that seems to be the obligatory teenage expression, she allowed me to talk.

Things went downhill from there.

The accusations.

The F word.

The C word.

If she’d been my student, I’d have been marching her to the head’s office for the equally serious crimes of using bad language and disrespecting her elders. But she wasn’t my student. And it seemed that I no longer had any power over her actions.

The argument was temporarily halted owing to a need for refuelling. Blue stormed into the kitchen, slammed a cupboard door and returned to the living room with a family packet of Archers Artisan Potato Crisps. I’d been saving them for a mother-daughter movie night, but such closeness seemed firmly located in our comfortable past. As if to accentuate that fact, Blue ripped open the bag from the bottom and pulled out fistfuls of thick fried potato, crushing them in her furious grasp.

I’m not doing it.

Her mouth was spilling crisps. Her hand was dropping crumbs too, yet she reached for more. I breathed deeply, holding back from notifying her that she was spilling as many crisps as she was eating. If I had, I was sure she’d then upturn the entire bag just to spite me.

I’m not doing it either.

So, tell that woman we aren’t doing it. She can’t make us.

Agreed. We’ll sell the waggon.

Yessssss, said Blue, leaving the room with a victorious flourish. Just a few seconds later, she marched back into the room, cheeks blotched and pink. With smudged black eyeliner and hands on hips, Blue looked like a crisp-covered pantomime dame hamming it up in school uniform.

Don’t you think it’s a bit weird? You and dad spend half your life lecturing me about getting a good education; then, he demands that I play truant for months. While I’m studying for my GCSEs.

Blue had always enjoyed the fine art of needless argument extension.

I sighed. My role as devil’s advocate was tried and tested, and I was my worst enemy, but my tongue had a life of its own.

You could get work sent from school. You could use study guides. Many home-schooled children do well in their exams, so there are ways around it if you want to do it.

"I don’t want to do it," she shrieked and left the room again, slamming the door hard this time.

Why don’t you ever listen to me? were her departing words, and she made sure the stairs felt the brunt of her anger.

The whole house shook, as did the ornaments on the flimsy shelving unit next to the sofa. Blue’s Lego creations were more inventions than ornaments. Their detailed cardboard casings held primary-coloured structures with masses of integral levers and pulleys, wheels and motors. I’d kept them all.

Blue had wanted to be an engineer or inventor as soon as she realised that girls were allowed. It was just as well that Reuben and I hadn’t any interest in the forcible imposition of gender stereotypes. We’d have been hard-pressed to force Blue into anything that didn’t stimulate her obsession.

There was just no manipulating her. A couple of years back, I’d made attempts to encourage Blue’s friend making by buying her a phone and tablet and encouraging her on social media. But, when I left her alone, she installed Brute Strength and Doppelganger Fury and immediately became engrossed in a completely different world to the social media maelstrom I’d expected. She began designing medieval-style-weaponry and competing in bloody battles.

Idle gossip and cooing over unobtainable boys weren’t pastimes of interest to my kid. But she did have a three-foot-long jewelled sword, a wood and bronze catapult and the beginnings of a brass-studded leather steampunk costume.

And she didn’t need to chat about unobtainable boys.

She already had a boyfriend.

Brandon had pushed himself into her life.

Later I heard her whispering into her phone.

Just a minute, she said as I entered the room.

Who are you talking to?

Nobody.

Is it him again?

If you mean Brandon, then yes.

I sat next to her on the sofa and made moves to stroke her hair. She pulled away vigorously and threw herself into Reuben’s usually untouched armchair. I sighed.

I’m sorry, Blue, but I can’t pretend I’m happy about you seeing him. Sylvie said she’s seen you together, and he’s older than you.

Certainly, Blue had one or two boyfriends before, and they’d call at the house and stand at the doorstep enjoying giggles and whispered conversation. It had been innocent fun. But Brandon was something else. According to Sylvie, he was a young man.

Blue huffed at me and stared pointedly at her phone.

I’m busy. Are you done, mother?

Belligerence poured from each word.

I’ve not even started.

Well, you can carry on all you like because I’m off to Brandon’s.

I attempted to protest, but