She considers it for a moment, her expression unreadable.
Then, with a slow sigh, she nods.
It amazes me that she doesn’t try to dissuade me.
‘Let’s go after this,’ she says, shocking me more. ‘As long as you feel up to it.’
‘I feel up to it,’ I say. ‘But do you?’
‘Yes. It’s time.’
I frown. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘All right,’ I say dubiously.
And, for a few seconds, we’re silent.
I study her, trying to wrap my head around her suggesting this, after so many years.
Absently, she reaches for the pot, pouring more tea.
She stirs in the milk.
Forgets her sugar.
I open my mouth to remind her.
Then, the bloody banging starts again.
I set my teeth, once again resisting the urge to look up at it.
‘Did you remember Bramble Lane?’ Mum asks.
‘Not at all.’ I take a breath, willing the banging away. ‘It’s strange, actually. I was expecting it to be quieter. More open. I could have sworn there used to be fields behind our house.’
Carefully, she stirs her sugarless tea. ‘Fields?’
‘Yes. I remember chasing sheep with Nan.’
‘You never chased sheep with your nan,’ she says.
And is it me, or has her voice turned weirdly tight?
‘Yes, I did,’ I tell her.
‘No. She was asthmatic. Very allergic … ’
‘But I remember … ’
‘You didn’t chase sheep with her.’
‘But there were fields behind the house, yes?’
God, will this banging ever stop?
And what’s even causing it?
