‘He wants you to visit him,’ she continues, her eyes not leaving mine. ‘He asked me to put in a good word.’
‘Jesus,’ I splutter. ‘He’s deluded. It will never happen. I still can’t believeyouwent.’
‘I think you should visit him, Immy. You need closure. He’s going to die. Don’t you want to hear his side of things before he does?’
‘One visit and he’s completely brainwashed you?’
‘That’s not true … I …’
But I can’t hear any more. I push my chair back, opening up my purse and throwing down two twenty-pound notes. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t do this.’
‘Immy …’
‘I need to go.’
And I storm out of the restaurant leaving her sitting there alone.
11
Dorothea
Three Months Before
Dorothea was nearly finished with her seventh, and last, sculpture. Her most important. Her most telling. She had always processed her emotions through her art, her way of making sense of the world, and never more so than with this collection. Her anger and frustration were evident to see, but her sorrow and regret too, she hoped.
The sky was a powder blue with the suggestion of sunshine beneath the swirling vanilla clouds. The kind of sky she liked to paint. No hint of rain, which meant it was safe to go into the woods today. That was one of the worst things about getting older, her deteriorating suppleness, her concern about falling, although she was fit. Fitter than some half her age, she reckoned, judging by some of the forty-year-olds she’d seen huffing and puffing as they tried to climb the hills by her house. And her trusty old hiking boots still had enough grip to stop her slipping. Still, she always took her old Samsungphone with her. And Solly, of course. He was getting on – in dog years not much younger than her – but he still loved the walk through the woods, barking at birds and trying to chase squirrels. His hearing wasn’t as good these days, another thing they had in common.
Dorothea shifted her tote bag full of paints and brushes further up her shoulder to stop it digging in as she made her way through the winding tracks to the outer part of the woods. It was one of the reasons she bought this house almost thirty years ago. Not many places came with their own wood but were still close enough to walk into the city, should she choose to do so, though she rarely did nowadays.
She stood for a few moments in a patch of sunshine, breathing in the tangy mid-morning air. Birds tweeted overhead and she closed her eyes. Things were bad, that much was true. And she was so angry. God, she was angry. But she could fix it. Well, no, notfix, exactly. But maybe she could right some wrongs. ‘There’s no fool like an old fool,’ she murmured to Solly, who barked at her in response.
She continued marching through the woods, Solly trotting by her side. She was nearly there now. Sunlight dappled the path in front of her and she felt that sense of freedom that was synonymous, to her at least, with being alone in the woods with the great expanse of sky above her.
And then a twig snapped from somewhere behind her.
Dorothea froze and so did Solly, his ears pricking forwards.
These woods were private land.Herprivate land. There was no public access. No right of way. The only way was through her garden and she always kept the side gate locked. Slowly she turned around. She refused to be scared but her palms started to sweat anyway. ‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Is anyone there?’ Her voice echoed among the branches. She stood for a few moments, watching, waiting, but there was no other sound except the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the cooing of a rook and the far-off rumble of traffic.
She continued on her way, casting the thought from her mind. It was only later, while she was walking back to the house, that she noticed it. Propped up against the trunk of a tree was a postcard with a woman’s face on the front and letters that she couldn’t clearly see without her glasses. She paused, frowning, before bending down to pick it up, her stomach clenching when she realized the woman on the front was her when she was younger. Her hands shook as she took out her reading glasses from her jacket and put them on, the words finally coming into focus.
COMING SUMMER 2025
A WOMAN IN TURMOIL?
The unauthorized biography of Dorothea Roe
by Sidney S. Crane
She looked around to see who could possibly have put this here, although she had a good idea. She turned the postcard over and on the back someone had scribbled:
I’ve been waiting a long time for this. Will we get to the truth at last?
12
Imogen
‘It’s here,’ I say to Josh the next morning. It’s Sunday, the sky is a bleached white, dew still on the lawn. I wasn’t going to mention the dead magpie I’d found the other day to Josh but knew I couldn’t hide it, because he’ll eventually see it, and I’m too squeamish to take it down myself.
