What Was Lost

Episode One

The room was bright. Yet, through the half-closed blind, the world outside was still black as night. I watched the nurse arranging my tray. A flash of red interrupted her busy fingers.

‘You wanted a ruby!’

The young woman paused, her empty smile becoming uncertainty. ‘Yes, that’s right! I brought your breakfast. Yesterday. Scrambled eggs. Like this.’ She checked her watch then hurried round to adjust the bed. I could feel myself becoming higher. ‘You wanted a little salt, remember?’

I reached for the salt pot, then pulled back my hand. ‘How much did I want?’

‘Just a little.’

I shook out a few grains. My fingers seemed strangely disobedient. I changed hands. That was better.

She handed me a spoon, watched me as I ate, then stepped round to the end of the bed and lifted a chart that was hanging there out of sight. She checked her watch again. Time was important. She nudged a china mug towards the front of the tray then fetched a small beaker from the side table. I watched it approach, removed the two yellow pills and swallowed them, each with a mouthful of tea. The tea was terrible, worse than yesterday. I remembered yesterday’s less-terrible tea. But I knew I was in no position to complain about tea, so I drank it and put my empty mug back on the tray. I hoped I wasn’t making a face. The pills had left a bitter aftertaste that even the terrible tea couldn’t wash away.

She removed my tray then pulled a chair over and sat down beside me, her hands together in her lap. ‘Can you tell me anything about yesterday, Sarah?’ she said.

I knew this was a test, I knew I had to say something, so I tried to recall things before today, looked again at the red stone, surrounded by a circle of tiny, sparkling diamonds:

‘Your ring.’

She turned the ring on her finger and smiled. ‘Anything else?’

I searched the room for inspiration. There was not much to see. Another chair, the side table, a lamp, a jug of water, a glass, a painting on the wall, a window.

‘I remember the sun.’

She smiled. ‘Yes, it was sunny yesterday. Anything else?’

Anything else? Yes, there was something else but I didn’t want to talk now. I wanted to concentrate. But my thoughts were giving way to the hum of the lights. To the distant laughter of a child. Ridiculing me. I felt myself becoming lower. A heavy door closed. Then footsteps. Two shadows alongside the nurse. One tall and wide. One short and thin. I tried to focus as the ruby-ringed fingers secured the sheet too tightly over my arms. I tried to listen as the same-as-before nurse spoke to the shadows, informed them of things beyond my hearing. As if only they were entitled to know. That today I remembered yesterday.

Episode Two

As far as I remember, the day began with waiting. Of course, I had by now come to realise that cats care very little about the passage of time. Only people care about that. So I stood patiently and watched the black and white cat sniff the newspaper around the outside of the plate, lick some invisible scrap of tuna from the newsprint, re-sniff the plate and then, without casting even a glance in my direction to offer some gesture of humble gratitude, pad purposefully towards the cat flap and nose its way through. I had no idea who that cat belonged to. If it had a name I was not aware of it. In fact, my association with this animal depended entirely upon the fact that the door that opened from my dank backyard into my kitchen included this special, cat-sized flap. I had considered resealing it. Parcel tape would probably have been enough to stop the ungrateful animal nudging its way through. But there was always the worry that the parcel tape might turn up at its edges and look a mess and then I’d regret my decision. There was also the possibility that I might miss the cat. Sometimes it purred. I might have missed the purring.

I watched the flap for a few moments then hurried over to the window to catch a last flash of black tail as it disappeared over into the yard next door. The cat was gone. So I turned my attention to the list on the work surface, took a pencil and added the word TUNA, folded the slip of paper into my jean’s pocket, replaced the pencil and walked over to the back door to confirm that the two bolts were secure. I checked that my wallet, driving licence, notebook with attached pencil, mobile phone and car keys were in my bag, touched the kettle and washing machine plugs three times each, rechecked the back door then hurried out of the kitchen before any doubts might set in. I knew it would be all right once I was in the car. I was always all right in the car.

The supermarket was anywhere between ten and twenty minutes away depending on traffic, and all the way there I played over the morning so far, from the point when I’d been ready to leave and that black and white cat had popped in through the flap and purred. So now it was after nine and the car park was busy. Too busy. But I knew that driving straight back home would not have been the right thing to do.

Inside, the aisles were still sparsely populated. So it would probably be OK. I grabbed a trolley and navigated it straight through the opposing rows of crisps and biscuits towards the central walkway. A sharp left took me into the tea and coffee aisle, which stretched deep into the rear of the supermarket. Then, avoiding the stack of Easter eggs abutting the central aisle, I pushed on to cereals, halted my trolley and observed the choices before me. So many choices. So many rectangular boxes, diminishing off into the distance. An intimidating range of nuts, dried fruits, seeds, wheat/no wheat, oats to absorb cholesterol, low salt, low fat, high fibre, additives/no additives stretched out before me. I threw myself into reading labels, studying carbohydrate contents, pushing my trolley further in past illustrations of happy, healthy other thirty-five-year-olds, whose lives were perfect because they consumed the correct breakfast cereal. The happy images began to coagulate into one multi-coloured muddle of good advice, manufacturers’ commitments, occasional warnings. I could feel myself diffusing into the options that surrounded me. The familiar stirrings of panic were rising up from just below my diaphragm. I controlled my breathing, observing the oat-coloured floor tiles, the matt surface of a shoe. Its partner shoe was hovering slightly off the ground. My eyes traced up the many-deniered tights to a woolly hemline, thick, wintry cloth, grey hair, an outstretched arm, an aged hand reaching hopelessly for a small packet of cornflakes on the top shelf. My own crisis was suddenly dwarfed by the plight of this diminutive shopper. I watched her sag in frustration and help herself to a family-sized box from the shelf below. I had no choice but to intervene.

‘Shall I try and reach?’ I whispered.

The woman glanced round. ‘Oh, would you, dear?’ She replaced her family-sized box and turned to me, wobbling her head slightly as she watched me ease one of the smaller boxes from the top shelf. I handed it over. She thanked me. I smiled graciously and watched her round the end of the aisle before stretching up, taking an identical box and placing it into my own trolley. I stood for a moment staring back along the aisle of wasted opportunity then, clenching the handle of my trolley so hard that it must have looked as if my knucklebones might burst through my skin, I hurried away from cereals. Justifying my decision. Cornflakes are good for you.

There was a feeling of openness about the fruit and vegetable terrain. Here the produce was arranged on long, sloping stalls. It was like a huge, sterile homage to those fairy-tale markets, where ragamuffins stole peaches and a boy might trade his cow for a handful of magic beans. I brushed past a tall stand of fresh herbs and the air filled with the lush, calming fragrance of basil. A startling yellow and black promotion demanded: BUY ONE GET ONE FREE. I ignored it, hurried on past strawberries and grapes, grabbed a bunch of green bananas, then wheeled my trolley back and helped myself to a pot of basil, re-read the promotion, selected a second pot, put both pots in my trolley, picked one of the pots up and put it back on the stand. Why would anyone want two pots of basil? One’s enough. Why on earth was I getting myself wound up about a pot of basil?

But it wasn’t really about the basil. Or the cornflakes. I knew that. It was about deciding. Not just about deciding what to choose. It was all those other decisions about what not to choose. Because every choice involves not merely the possibility of choosing the wrong thing but an endless number of possibilities of not choosing the right thing. Too many decisions about not choosing. Dr Gray always insisted: ‘If there are too many decisions, just take a deep breath and walk away.’ So I had walked away. I’d walked so far away that there were now six mountainous banks of food between me and those unchosen boxes of cereal. I took a deep breath, fumbled in my pocket and pulled out my list:

BANANAS

CEREAL

CAT BICUITS

TUNA

I read it several times to make sure. Then, just as I was folding it back into my pocket, I glanced up and noticed a perfect red and green apple rolling towards me. Arcing towards my foot. Impact was inevitable. Inevitable. And that’s when it all began. Well, just some of it began. Although, in truth, it really did all begin with an apple.

I stared at the apple resting against my shoe. It was probably a too-red Bramley, perhaps a too-green Gala. I can’t remember now. But I do remember that, even after everything that had happened, everything I had lost, I could still remember the names of apples. And I could still remember Granny Clark’s stories: how apples came to be called this or that. Barnaby Smith’s old grandma used to hide those hard green apples in a box under her bed so that the night fairies would never find them. Annabel Bramley had been disappointed that only one of her apple pips germinated although she wasn’t to know that trees from that one tiny seedling would one day provide fruit for the best apple pies in the world. I was writing all those stories into picture books. Doing the illustrations myself. In fact, I’d been thinking about Orange Pippins that very morning. Before the black and white cat had purred in through the flap and demanded tuna.

I stooped to retrieve the unsolicited fruit, lifted it to my nose and was briefly overwhelmed by a memory of pumpkins and autumn sunshine. I read the name on the round, sticky label. Was Braeburn in Scotland? Perhaps that was something I once knew.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t aim that at you!’

I looked up. He was smiling. The man who had not aimed the apple was smiling. He was, perhaps, early forties, tall with some very pleasing russet stubble, specked golden in the artificial light. His eyes were green: not apple green, more pastel green, like husky eyes made white by the snow. I offered him the apple. ‘It seems OK,’ I said. I really liked the colour of his eyes. Mine are just brown, like most other eyes. ‘But you ought to put it back. In case it’s bruised.’

‘Then someone else might finish up with a bruised apple.’

I felt myself smiling. That in itself was brave of me. ‘Shall I put it back for you?’

He made a display of coming to a decision. His smile disappeared. But the tiny creases beside his eyes didn’t. ‘No, never get anybody else to do your dirty work. I’ll take it to a member of staff and explain.’

‘They’ll put it back when you’re not looking.’ I was amazed at my own boldness.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but at least my conscience will be clear.’ He took the apple, hovered momentarily, then his face broke into a broad smile. ‘See ya!’

I watched him return to his trolley, replete with vegetables, grabbed a grapefruit I didn’t want, pulled off my scrunchie and reorganised it, then hurried away towards canned fish, where I loaded a dozen small tins of line-caught tuna in spring water into my trolley, before collecting two bags of cat biscuits and wheeling on towards the checkouts. Did tuna live in spring water? I couldn’t remember. I joined the nearest queue and thought about Orange Pippins, remembering what Granny Clark used to say: if they rattle they’re ripe. I could remember her holding those yellow-red apples to my ear and shaking them. I could remember them rattling. I could remember back then.

‘Fancy a coffee?’

I spun round. ‘What?’

‘Coffee, do you fancy a coffee?’ The apple man. He was right behind me in the queue.

I caught my breath, recovered. ‘I have to get back. I’m writing a book. For children.’ I noticed a slight flicker of awkwardness in his pastel-green eyes. ‘But thanks, if I didn’t have to… Do you come here often?’

He laughed away the awkwardness. ‘Excellent line! You’re clearly a world-class author.’ He took a very obvious deep breath. ‘Mostly Thursdays. Occasionally Saturdays. Not usually as early as this. The name’s Parry. Matthew Parry.’ He offered his hand.

‘Can I help?’ The checkout operative sliced through our conversation.

‘Oh, sorry,’ I said and hurried four tins on to the conveyor belt.

‘Do you need help?’ He lifted two tins and my box of cornflakes and aimed them at the till. ‘Are the cornflakes for you or your cat? I presume you have a cat.’ He scooped up the cat biscuits. ‘Either that or you have a strange taste in biscuits.’

I forced myself to smile and quickly transferred the rest of my shopping before he could offer further assistance, pushed my trolley past the checkout and hurried everything into my bag, handed the woman my credit card, punched in the number that was written across my wallet, glanced towards the exit and waited.

‘I’d like you to have this as a deposit.’ Again I was forced to look round. I was being offered a familiar red and green apple. The shop assistant tutted. He addressed her directly. ‘It’s weighed and included in the price.’ He demonstrated the sticker on his bag of other red and green apples. ‘Do you want to check it?’

The assistant rolled her eyes and ripped my receipt from the till. ‘Next!’ she instructed the conveyer belt, which was already filling with vegetables.

I accepted the apple, surprised at my lack of embarrassment. Perhaps I’d forgotten how to feel embarrassed. He continued to unload his shopping. ‘Perhaps this Saturday? Same time, same place?’

I popped the apple into my bag and said nothing – which was pretty much a reflection of what was inside my head – left the supermarket in a blur and drove home, wondering who he was, what he did, where he lived. What he would think if he knew.

I pulled into the residents’ parking zone, parked in my allocated space, being careful not to reverse into the builder’s skip that was occupying the two visitor parking spaces, hauled my shopping off the passenger seat and stepped out of my car. The black and white cat emerged from under a nearby van, rubbed past the back wheel of my dilapidated Escort and threw its ear against my leg. I hurried inside. The cat knew not to follow.

Secure in my kitchen, I pulled a tin of tuna from my bag and emptied its contents onto a clean plate. I glanced up as a familiar black and white head purred through the flap, watched as the indifferent animal lapped systematically around the outside of the tuna flesh, savouring the spring water, before attacking the main course. The purring intensified. I washed my hands thoroughly then emptied my shopping onto the work surface, snatched up the apple as it rolled away and tried to remember whether apples ought to be kept in the fridge. It didn’t look as if it did. So I put it in the fruit bowl with the grapefruit and bananas. I stacked the rest of the tins and the cat biscuits into the cupboard under the sink and then returned to the small box of cornflakes, carried it over to the cereal cupboard, and took a deep breath before opening the door and inserting the fresh box alongside all the other identical boxes arranged two deep on all three shelves of the cupboard.

Episode Three

The black and white cat had clearly decided to stay for the morning and was now asleep on a dining chair pushed halfway under the kitchen table. Its right ear was perhaps two inches away from the ridge of wood that ran between two table legs. It must have had to squeeze itself underneath, yet it was sleeping peacefully. I envied the way that cats were able to be comfortable in such uncomfortable circumstances. But then, cats have small heads containing small brains that have no room for the kind of worries that could congeal into frantic dreaming or reasons for not sleeping. I watched its fur breathe. What a declaration of confidence in my benign hospitality that this animal, so able to roam free, should sleep so soundly on my kitchen chair.

I stepped over and slid out the tray from beside the dresser, fetched two china mugs and the empty biscuit tin. Half-filled the sugar bowl. Checked the kitchen timer. Forty-five minutes. Filled the kettle. Forty-three minutes. I wandered through to the lounge at the front of the house. My desk was beneath the window that looked out onto the road outside. On its surface was a lined notepad open at the first page. A brief list was pencilled halfway down:

PIP

PIPPIN

PIPPED

It annoyed me, so I took a pencil out of the pencil pot, one that ended in a smudged eraser, and scrubbed out the bottom word. The eraser transferred its smudge to the paper. Now I was really annoyed. I ripped out the page and noticed that the page beneath still bore the imprint of the three words. I pulled that one out as well, screwed them both into a tight ball with that bottom word locked deep inside. I heard something, glanced up, and noticed movement through the narrow slits in the blind. I bent lower to get a better view of the pavement outside. It was old Miss Lewis from next door. And a woman, short and thin, exhaling cigarette smoke as she spoke. She was pointing her cigarette up towards the empty flat above mine. Miss Lewis was leaning away from her, shaking her head. I looked up at the ceiling. Sometimes, there were noises. I reached over to pull the blind closed, slowly so that no one would see it move. The woman was walking away towards a silver-grey car. Miss Lewis was watching her go. I glanced again at the ceiling then hurried back into the kitchen and threw the paper ball into the recycling box. Thirty-one minutes. The house phone rang beside me. I waited for the ringing to stop then copied the last incoming number onto the telephone pad, detached the sheet and hid it underneath the pile of tea towels in the tea towel drawer. Twenty-seven minutes.

When the timer said ten minutes I turned it to zero, went through to the lounge, sat down on the larger of the two sofas and watched the minute hand on the wall clock jolt towards twelve, then down towards the one. The doorbell rang. I hurried over and peered through the small peephole. A tiny, cone-shaped Mrs Parkin was on the other side; she moved her head towards the outer part of the peephole and her eye became bigger than the whole rest of her body. I opened the door before things got any worse.

‘Hello, Sarah,’ said Mrs Parkin. ‘I’ve had to park miles away. It’s a bit of a liberty those builders taking up your visitor parking like that. We ought to complain. How are we today?’ She always said that, but I don’t think she ever expected an answer. She stepped inside and waited for me to close the door. ‘Shall we have some tea?’ This was Mrs Parkin’s usual opening gambit. She probably imagined that it created a friendly atmosphere. It made me cringe each time she said it, which, at the moment, was every Monday and Thursday.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ I said.

She nodded her approval and followed me into the kitchen. The black and white cat was nowhere to be seen. I watched Mrs Parkin remove her coat and drape it over the back of a chair then investigate her bag for my case file. She was a tall, tight-skinned woman with bony hands and big feet. She invariably wore flat shoes, presumably to offset her height, but the shoes made her feet look even bigger. The overall effect was awkward. She also had a wide mouth, even when she was not smiling, which was most of the time, and, at some point in the past, she hadill-advisedly had her thin hair bobbed into a kind of choir-boy basin cut. She was probably about fifty but looked older. I turned away, emptied out the filled kettle, refilled it and switched it on. When I turned back Mrs Parkin was opening her folder onto the work surface.

‘So, how are you today, Sarah?’

‘I went to the supermarket.’ My eyes strayed towards the fruit bowl and the incriminating Braeburn, only inches from Mrs Parkin’s folder. I pointed to the windowsill. ‘I bought basil.’

‘How lovely. Did you speak to anyone?’

‘No.’

‘No little panicky episodes?’

‘No.’

She made a brief note. ‘Have there been any calls?’

‘No.’ The kettle flicked off. I made tea.

Mrs Parkin watched me for a moment before removing a packet of biscuits from her bag. ‘I thought we’d try something special for a change. Chocolate gingers.’

I took the biscuits, emptied them into the biscuit tin and placed it on the tray, then carried the tray the short distance to the table. Mrs Parkin picked up her folder and sat down.

‘And how was your consultation yesterday?’

‘Dr Gray was pleased,’ I said.

‘And Dr Williams on Tuesday?’

‘Fine. I had a note from the Indian restaurant on the corner, about removing a gate and re-fencing. I showed it to Dr Gray.’

Mrs Parkin checked her information. ‘Hmm, Dr Gray feels it’s best if your mail continues to be redirected.’ She glanced down a list. ‘There hasn’t been much. Mostly bills. And they’ll continue to be paid from funds. Is your allowance proving sufficient?’

‘Yes. I bought a microwave.’

‘I noticed.’ She helped herself to a biscuit. ‘Have you been able to use it?’

‘Yes. I’m OK with instructions. Mrs Parkin, I think my road tax disc has to be renewed at the end of the month. Will the funds cover that?’

She flicked a few pages. ‘It’s already seen to. As I’ve said before, we have arranged for all these things to be dealt with. According to your agreement. Shall we pour the tea?’

I poured. I could feel my blood pulsing past my throat. I needed to ask.

‘Mrs Parkin, I can’t expect to be paid for like this forever. My car, my rent.’ I handed her a mug. ‘Does my landlord know about me?’

Mrs Parkin helped herself to sugar. ‘Dr Gray is optimistic about your recovery. In the meantime there are sufficient funds.’

‘What funds? Is it the money from my books?’

‘Sarah, we have discussed trust, haven’t we?’

‘But there must be people who know what happened to me. What happened to make me not remember. Where are all the people who knew me?’

‘Trust, Sarah!’ Mrs Parkin sipped her tea. ‘Now, what about your writing?’

I resigned myself to not knowing. ‘I did some this morning.’

‘Good! That’s a good sign, I’m sure. Do help yourself, my dear!’ She leant over and took another chocolate ginger, bit into it and left a trace of pale, ill-chosen, pink lipstick deposited across the surface of the chocolate. I helped myself to a biscuit and took a modest bite and instantly experienced the strong sensation of what must have been ginger, curling around my tongue in advance of the luscious, dark chocolate. I closed my eyes and tried to remember these tastes from before but Mrs Parkin interrupted, asking me if I’d thought of leaving the house other than to visit the supermarket. ‘We could arrange an outing. To buy clothes or…’

‘I have clothes. And lots of shoes. I must have liked shoes.’

‘We could go back to three visits a week, if you’d prefer.’

Good God, no. ‘No, I’m fine,’ I said, trying not to sound ungrateful.

Mrs Parkin wrote notes. ‘Have you made contact with any more of the neighbours?’

‘No. Just Miss Lewis next door. Then there’s the house with the builders and the people next to that are still not there. She talks about the weather. Miss Lewis.’ I took another small bite of the chocolate ginger. ‘Does she know what happened to me?’

‘Enough not to mention, which is for the best at the moment. Dr Williams thinks it’s essential for recovery. I think I’ll have a top-up.’

I refilled Mrs Parkin’s mug and handed her the milk jug, watched her fill her mug almost to overflowing then zoom in to suck up the first mouthful before it could throw itself over the side, watched her bottom lip deposit a pink smear across the china.

‘Today I remembered how my granny used to rattle apples,’ I said.

Mrs Parkin looked up from helping herself to sugar. ‘And why exactly did she do that, Sarah?’

‘To see if they were ripe!’

Mrs Parkin’s mouth puckered into a smile. The pink lipstick was now restricted to the peripheral regions of her lips, the rest was either consumed along with the chocolate, or left on her mug. I felt the need to look away.

The allotted hour staggered to a close. Mrs Parkin checked her watch.

‘Now, Sarah, as always, please contact either myself or one of the doctors if anything changes. You must keep our numbers with you at all times. And if you feel yourself remembering anything at all, call us straight away. That’s what we’re for.’ She closed her folder: ‘So, we’ve had a nice little chat. And I get the impression you’re feeling a little more relaxed about everything, so that’s super-duper. Next time we’ll…’

‘But, Mrs Parkin, I still don’t understand how I can do the things I can do, but I can’t remember most of my life.’

Mrs Parkin glanced again at her watch. ‘Sarah, Dr Gray has explained the difference between remembering how to do things and remembering your own personal experiences, hasn’t he? You really must trust his expertise. We can discuss this during next Monday’s session if you are still concerned.’

I realised that any further questions would achieve nothing, so I contented myself with watching Mrs Parkin pulling on her coat, walking her to the front door and watching briefly as she strode off in the direction of the Indian restaurant. I closed the door, paused for a moment to compose myself, then wandered through into my bedroom and on into the bathroom. As I stepped inside, I caught sight of my face approaching in the mirror above the sink, a pale face that offered me no explanation, apart from perhaps a sadness in the eyes. I stepped forward to take a closer look. I could make out an old chickenpox mark on my left temple, which was usually masked by my hair. I studied it and tried to capture some echo of a childhood sickbed, of warm tears and calamine. But there was nothing there. I brushed my hair smooth then stepped over to the wall cabinet, took out a slim make-up bag and sat on the edge of the bath to investigate its contents. Everything was unused. I poked around to find a thin maroon tube with gold writing: Autumn Kiss. Non-smear. I eased it open and returned to my pale face in the mirror and carefully applied a smooth covering of dull brownish red, snapped up a tissue and closed my lips over it. I assessed my appearance and watched myself smile. It suited me. It complemented the flashes of amber in my light-brown hair. Again, I closed my lips over the tissue then flushed it away, took another look at myself and then returned to the kitchen. The black and white cat was back, sleeping soundly, presumably taking advantage of any residual warmth left by Mrs Parkin’s thin bottom. I hurried to clear away the tea things, then picked up the biscuit tin, walked over to the sink and tipped the remaining rich, chocolate gingers into the organic waste. Ginger was probably something I didn’t like.

Episode Four

Friday came next. And, as on every Friday throughout that unusual springtime, Annie Dickson was to spend the two hours between ten o’clock and midday cleaning my lounge-diner, kitchen, bedroom and bathroom. I assumed that Mrs Dickson answered directly to Mrs Parkin and suspected that she wasn’t really a cleaner at all but rather some kind of middle-aged spy, obliged to report back each week concerning my state of recovery. But I didn’t mind the deception too much because Mrs Dickson changed the sheets and did all my laundry and ironing. She was much nicer than Mrs Parkin and not that intrusive, for a spy, although I remember always making sure I was in the same room as her, apart from when she went to the toilet, which was invariably just after she arrived and just before she left. I enjoyed our weekly chats about her last several holidays and her three grandsons and even her troublesome menopause. In fact, that Friday I was really looking forward to seeing her.

‘Hello, dear,’ said Mrs Dickson. ‘Can’t seem to make its mind up whether to rain or not. How’ve you been this week?’

I stepped back to invite her inside. ‘I’ve been fine. Shall I put the kettle on?’

‘That would be lovely, Sarah. I’ll just spend a penny, if that’s all right.’

By the time Mrs Dickson joined me in the kitchen, the tea was ready to be poured. She pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘No puss today? Just one sugar, please, Sarah, same as usual. Shouldn’t really but I like a little bit of sugar and those sweeteners leave a nasty taste in your mouth. Not that you’d know, slim as that. I wish I had your figure. Mind you, poor Mr Dickson would never find me if I was as thin as that.’

Mrs Dickson’s chatter always reassured me. And I liked the way she puffed her short, portly body around behind the vacuum cleaner, the way she rolled her sleeves up when she cleaned the worktops. I thought that she must be a perfect granny, the kind of granny one might expect to find living in a cottage in the woods, the sort of granny that a red-cloaked granddaughter might rescue from a grisly fate. I handed Mrs Dickson her tea.

‘One sugar, same as usual,’ I said. It was almost a joke.

Mrs Dickson chuckled, un-spy-like, then she reached into her bag and pulled out a plastic lunch box. ‘I’ve bought us a little treat. I know how fussy you are about what you eat, but I thought we’d try some of my chocolate cake. The little ones love it.’ She flipped off the lid to reveal a rectangular slab. Slightly squashed in transit, its surface was covered in a dense layer of chocolate sprinkles interrupted by an occasional silver ball. I froze. There was something not at all right about the way those little balls were embedded in the chocolate. They couldn’t possibly be edible. I’d be bound to breathe one into my lungs and suffocate. And Mrs Dickson would have to try and save me. I felt my fingers knitting together, tried to pull them apart but they were inseparable.

‘What’s the matter, dear? I thought you liked chocolate. We can put it away if it’s upsetting you.’

‘No! I do like… but I’m not hungry and…’

Mrs Dickson placed a fat hand on my arm: ‘Is it the little balls?’ She pushed the lunchbox away. Reproachful. ‘I should have known that would be a mistake. The balls, I mean. My boys always pick them off and throw them at each other.’ She patted my arm. ‘Why don’t you fetch us some tea plates and by the time you get back there’ll not be a single ball left.’ She frowned. ‘You do like sprinkles, don’t you?’

I went over to the dresser and selected two china plates, held them close to my chest, waited to hear the loose flap of the waste bin then got to my feet. Mrs Dickson was sitting the same as before. In front of her was a completely ball-less slab, its surface pockmarked with a few irregular craters, surrounded by sprinkles. It was excellent cake.

Annie Dickson commenced her cleaning routine. I followed her from room to room, listening, chatting. Perhaps four times in two hours was too many times to thank a person for a cake, but Mrs Dickson seemed pleased, so I felt it must have made amends for the problem with the balls. She was forcing the linen into the washing machine when the phone rang. It rang four times before she mentioned it:

‘Would you like me to answer it, Sarah?’

‘It’s nobody!’

The ringing stopped. Mrs Dickson