barking loudly. Quill, Alice’s mongrel, was in hot pursuit of both of
them, and he, too, was barking. The boy was shouting their names, egging them on in their pursuit of him and howling like a wolf.
Helen had her hands in the sink, washing pots and pans from the night before, and her younger child, Angus, was sitting cross-legged at her feet. He was watching the TV, a wide-eyed look of
wonder on his face, singing out loud and occasionally bursting into high-pitched laughter.
Walking into the room, Alice felt overwhelmed. Everything happening in it was happening too fast, it was blurred with speed, and the colours were too vivid, the sounds too loud. When she spoke,
her voice sounded oddly heavy, leaden, like someone else’s.
‘Hello, Sam.’
‘Out of the way! Get out of the way!’ he shouted at her, missing her by inches as he careered past, the dogs straining to reach him.
‘Sam!’ Helen said crossly, but he took no notice of her.
Rolling her eyes heavenwards, she took off her rubber gloves and, on his next circuit, stretched out to catch him as he whirled past her again. At her second attempt, she managed to grab his
bare shoulders and slowly draw him towards her. Once he was still, the dogs, too, came to a halt, and Quill, pink tongue lolling from his mouth, wandered over to the water bowl for a drink.
Seeing that the bowl was empty, Helen took her hands off her older son, and the instant he was free he pedalled away to start his circuits of the kitchen table once more. The dogs, seeing that
the game had begun again, rushed back to join in. One of them tripped over the television flex, pulling the plug from the socket, and instantly a loud wail came from Angus, who found himself
sitting in front of a blank screen. Tutting irritably, Helen picked him up. The child turned his head away from her, wriggling in her arms, desperate to return to his seat on the floor and resume
his viewing.
‘It’s all right, Helen,’ Alice said, putting the tray down by the sink. ‘I liked it as it was.’ Helen looked at her doubtfully, so she added, ‘Honestly, just
as it was.’
Before Helen had a chance to respond, she had to leap out of the way to avoid being run over by her son.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure.’
Helen bent down and put the plug back into its socket and the TV flashed into life. There were gurgles of joy from her younger child, already enraptured by the picture on the screen. Alice
picked up a red-and-white dishcloth and began to dry one of the newly-scrubbed pans. Her sister returned to her place at the sink, yellow gloves on once more, as she attacked a blackened oven
dish.
‘Pete left it in the oven overnight to “roast” peppers,’ she said with a rueful sigh. Alice nodded but said nothing. After a while Helen spoke again. ‘Would it help
to talk?’
‘Not really,’ Alice answered, cutlery in hand, her eyes on the children. But in the minutes of prolonged and uncomfortable silence that followed she felt the need to say something.
Helen seemed to expect it.
‘I haven’t get my own mind around it yet, Helen,’ she began. ‘It’s hard to explain. It’s like something I’ve only half seen, something glimpsed. One bit
of my brain knows exactly what it saw, but another bit of it, the hopeful bit, goes on insisting that it was not that at all. It tells me that it was something else. And that’s the bit that I
want to believe. The hopeful bit, the bit that says that there’s been a mistake and he’s not really dead, that someone else was run over, not him. And then I can believe that
he’ll come walking through the door at any minute. Every time I think I’ve accepted his death, believe it, the hopeful bit of my brain upsets everything, saying I’m wrong. I know
he’s dead, of course I do . . .’
‘What happened?’ Helen asked, leaning her head against her bare forearm and rubbing her itchy forehead on it.
Alice breathed out. She did not want to talk to anyone
them, and he, too, was barking. The boy was shouting their names, egging them on in their pursuit of him and howling like a wolf.
Helen had her hands in the sink, washing pots and pans from the night before, and her younger child, Angus, was sitting cross-legged at her feet. He was watching the TV, a wide-eyed look of
wonder on his face, singing out loud and occasionally bursting into high-pitched laughter.
Walking into the room, Alice felt overwhelmed. Everything happening in it was happening too fast, it was blurred with speed, and the colours were too vivid, the sounds too loud. When she spoke,
her voice sounded oddly heavy, leaden, like someone else’s.
‘Hello, Sam.’
‘Out of the way! Get out of the way!’ he shouted at her, missing her by inches as he careered past, the dogs straining to reach him.
‘Sam!’ Helen said crossly, but he took no notice of her.
Rolling her eyes heavenwards, she took off her rubber gloves and, on his next circuit, stretched out to catch him as he whirled past her again. At her second attempt, she managed to grab his
bare shoulders and slowly draw him towards her. Once he was still, the dogs, too, came to a halt, and Quill, pink tongue lolling from his mouth, wandered over to the water bowl for a drink.
Seeing that the bowl was empty, Helen took her hands off her older son, and the instant he was free he pedalled away to start his circuits of the kitchen table once more. The dogs, seeing that
the game had begun again, rushed back to join in. One of them tripped over the television flex, pulling the plug from the socket, and instantly a loud wail came from Angus, who found himself
sitting in front of a blank screen. Tutting irritably, Helen picked him up. The child turned his head away from her, wriggling in her arms, desperate to return to his seat on the floor and resume
his viewing.
‘It’s all right, Helen,’ Alice said, putting the tray down by the sink. ‘I liked it as it was.’ Helen looked at her doubtfully, so she added, ‘Honestly, just
as it was.’
Before Helen had a chance to respond, she had to leap out of the way to avoid being run over by her son.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure.’
Helen bent down and put the plug back into its socket and the TV flashed into life. There were gurgles of joy from her younger child, already enraptured by the picture on the screen. Alice
picked up a red-and-white dishcloth and began to dry one of the newly-scrubbed pans. Her sister returned to her place at the sink, yellow gloves on once more, as she attacked a blackened oven
dish.
‘Pete left it in the oven overnight to “roast” peppers,’ she said with a rueful sigh. Alice nodded but said nothing. After a while Helen spoke again. ‘Would it help
to talk?’
‘Not really,’ Alice answered, cutlery in hand, her eyes on the children. But in the minutes of prolonged and uncomfortable silence that followed she felt the need to say something.
Helen seemed to expect it.
‘I haven’t get my own mind around it yet, Helen,’ she began. ‘It’s hard to explain. It’s like something I’ve only half seen, something glimpsed. One bit
of my brain knows exactly what it saw, but another bit of it, the hopeful bit, goes on insisting that it was not that at all. It tells me that it was something else. And that’s the bit that I
want to believe. The hopeful bit, the bit that says that there’s been a mistake and he’s not really dead, that someone else was run over, not him. And then I can believe that
he’ll come walking through the door at any minute. Every time I think I’ve accepted his death, believe it, the hopeful bit of my brain upsets everything, saying I’m wrong. I know
he’s dead, of course I do . . .’
‘What happened?’ Helen asked, leaning her head against her bare forearm and rubbing her itchy forehead on it.
Alice breathed out. She did not want to talk to anyone
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