It started at the bus stop, at the end of what had been an incredibly long day. As the lowest of the low, with just one foot on the publishing ladder, I got all the 'special' jobs. Meaning, the ones that no-one else wanted to do. And they often seemed to be the ones that involved getting home to your tiny and faintly cabbage-smelling studio 'flat' at obscure times of night. "You'll be all right, Jen, won't you," they'd say cheerfully as they headed off home to 2.4 children or dates in overpriced bars, with the implication that you should be grateful for every single one of the exciting opportunities that the job offered.

As it slid towards midnight, I hit send on the final email and locked up with a sigh of relief. I was ready for a break, a week off for rest and relaxation. Nothing planned, just chilling.

I saw the night bus coming and I ran across the road, a tightly timed dash through the traffic. The bus pulled up short with a screech of brakes, juddering to a halt halfway on the pavement, and so did the car coming in the opposite direction.

It was then that the whistling started; a low musical whistle in the dark that made my scalp prickle. I saw a man walking along the opposite pavement, lit by the sodium lights and muffled against the night. The whistling faded as he walked past, and it was only then I realised that I had been holding my breath.

I put my key in the door, grateful to be home at last, and I heard the whistling again. Low and quiet, carrying a tune that tickled the edges of familiarity, but that I just couldn't place. I leapt inside and slammed the door, wedging it shut with a sculpture left there by the previous tenant. The whistling stopped, and I threw myself down on the single bed that, piled up with cushions, doubled as a sofa by day. Half an hour later, I gave myself a stern talking to about how sound travels in an old house, especially one divided into as many microscopic flats as humanly possible. I finally slept, but with unsettled dreams that I couldn't remember in the morning, other than the tiny snatches of almost familiar tunes.

The next day I pottered around the flat or wandered along the river. I'd almost forgotten about the whistling until that night. As I started to drift away into that place between awake and asleep, I heard the whistling in the dark for a third time. I felt cold all over and hid under the covers.

Over the next few nights it came back every time I found myself alone in the dark, the tunes getting clearer and more distinct.

I was convinced I was losing my mind. I thought about seeing a doctor, but I knew all he would say was tinnitus or stress or mild depression, and had I thought about losing weight and exercising more. Instead I just longed for the long, light days of summer and left the radio on low. The next two nights the muted voices of Radio 4 and the World Service were there as I woke in the morning and fell asleep at night. But the whistling in the dark started to leach through, like damp through plaster after a storm. There was no-one I could tell, and I really wasn't sure how much more I could take.

For no conscious reason, on a walk around the quiet daytime streets I stepped inside a church. I'm not sure what I wanted, or even what I expected, but perhaps I was subconsciously looking for peace. As the darkness of the building enclosed me, I flinched. I was alone; it was dark. But there was no whistling, just a sense of peace. I must have spent hours there, perhaps even dozed in the silence, because when I stirred myself I was stiff from sitting, and the windows were dark. The main door was shut but I slipped out of a small, unlocked door at the foot of the tower. The whistling followed me home, but I felt calmer, and slept well for the first time in a week. I sent an 'I'm off sick' email into work to give myself an extra few days, and spent the next day in the gloom and silence of the church.

That evening I heard a younger and an older voice speaking quietly together in the pews in front of me. I slipped further into the darkness, not wanting to disturb the intense conversation, and a few words and sentences carried across to me.

"Father, I don't know what to do. I don't know how much more I can take. I see shadows in the corner of the flat. Sometimes I hear a radio playing quietly. It's as if they took her stuff but left her behind. The other day as I opened the front door to go in, it slammed and a sculpture, one I’d found in a cupboard, fell behind it, holding it shut. It was all I could do to open the door. Whistling helps – maybe it just keeps my spirits up. A bit of old-fashioned bravado."

He laughed, but it was strained.

"Would you like to pray, my son?" the priest said.

They bowed their heads and I felt sick, dizzy, and faint. The whistling started up again. I ran out of the church, and no-one stirred. No-one except the younger man.

That night, I sat on the floor in the darkest corner of the flat, my arms wrapped around my knees, and the darkness pressing. The radio on low. I heard whistling and quiet footsteps. And I knew that the haunting would continue.
​
For as long as I stayed there.

This is based on my story of the same name, published in 2007 in Read By Dawn Volume Two - I've adapted it to be read aloud.

Behind him, her door slams shut, cutting off all chances of return. He is in the street, on the street in fact. All his belongings are in her cupboards, on her shelves. His wallet and keys are in the jacket slung over her chair. He can’t go back, at least not tonight.

In the distance, he sees the vaguely familiar face of a neighbour. He raises his hand and sets off down the street, as if being the wrong side of a slammed door is the most natural thing in the world.
 
[tap tap tap tap]
 
The argument was devastating in its finality, and has left him alone in a place he came to only for her. The stupid, pointless fight had started over something and nothing, but as fights increasingly did over the dying days of their relationship, it descended into a battle about his distance and his guilt over something he still cannot remember.

He becomes more frantic, tasting her taunts in his mouth and spitting out the bitterness of the phrases. The few people treading the narrow pavements hear his mutterings and see his pale face and cross the road. He keeps walking.

He decides to hitch to where he has some friends. But it’s getting dark and he has become entangled in the back streets of her unfamiliar northern city. The Victorian redbrick terraces menace him with their hard eyes of glass and doors set in gaping toothless mouths. His heart and his footsteps beat harder and faster.
 
[tap tap tap tap]
 
His anger turns to fear and he lunges blindly round a corner, finding himself in an alley enclosed by dark, windowless buildings and ending in a brick wall, broken only by a door.

The door is painted a fading, blistered green. The surface around the handle is splintered, as if someone – something – tried to break it down, escape from the alley. The broken wood is discoloured and darkened by the passing of winters. Nothing has moved in this alley for many years.

He turns—this, obviously, is not a way out of the hated city. But... the entrance has disappeared. He is trapped in a box of red brick walls. He looks to the sky, now completely dark and howls in child-like fear. When he stops, he hears a choking wet sound. And a name, his name, one he no longer uses. He begins to remember.

And so does it. In the depths of the alleyway, in the dark, oily shadows of a storm drain, it stirs. It is awake. And can now see a way to escape.

Behind him, from the drain, he hears footsteps. A hard, clipping tap, the sound of a child's party shoe on stone flags.
 
[tap tap tap tap]
 
He spins around. There is no one there. In front of him, the door. Behind him, the footsteps. The footsteps get closer, bring with them the sound of water and mud. He sees something in the shadows. He half-remembers a reaching hand.

Panic-stricken, he runs toward the door and snatches at the handle – he will try anything to get away from the approaching footsteps.
 
[tap tap tap tap]
 
The door opens easily, on oiled hinges. As he steps quickly inside, it slams behind him. The second door to slam behind him this day. But this time he breathes a sigh of relief. The sound of the footsteps is blocked out.
He stands inside a beautiful living room, his shadow etched black on the carpet. The furniture glows the deep, rich brown of long cared-for wood. He knows this place, and it brings a sense of comfort, of reassurance, as if he has come home. The door, behind him, now has a glass pane in it, and through it he sees a path leading down through a garden to a lake. He walks to the door and places his hands flat on the glass, feeling the warmth of the sun against his chilled hands. Down by the lake, a pretty blonde girl in a white frock and shiny black party shoes laughs and sings. She is balancing on the old stone flags at the edge of the water.
 
[tap tap tap tap]
 
Seeing him, she turns to beckon him out.

He feels a chill watery wash of fear. As he goes to the door, words of warning on his lips, the sun winks out. The lake disappears, its surface rippled as if by a thrown pebble.

And he feels guilt from the forgotten aftermath of a child's mistake; guilt for what he didn’t do and guilt for the forgetting.
​
He turns and the room is now filled with piles of mouldering furniture where before has been warmth and beauty. The old door is there again in a blank wall, and the footsteps echo once more in his ears. This time they are almost at the door.
 
[tap tap tap tap]
 
As he runs through the house, he catches glimpses of rooms he remembers. A warm kitchen smelling of baking bread, a stinking bathroom, a beautiful dining room, a dark bedroom with a rotting child-size bed. And always, the wet tapping of the footsteps.
 
[tap tap tap tap]
 
Just as he sees the polished wood front door, he trips and falls, hitting his chin hard on the chilly black and white floor. As he scrabbles to find his feet a tendril of wet cold, a child-sized hand, wraps around his ankle and he smells the damp stench of stagnant water.

She drags him back and the chipped and cracked marble tiles scrape his belly. His bruised and bloody fingertips scratch at the floor. He catches hold of the edge of a broken tile. Stopping with a jolt that almost tears his spine apart, he wrenches his leg free, leaving skin and sock and shoe in her clutches. Leaving a bloody bare footprint on the stained marble, he falls out of the door into an unfamiliar, well-lit street. When he turns, he sees only an ordinary red brick terrace, not the house that was far away and a long time ago.

He waits a moment, and the footsteps begin with a a quiet tapping ringed with water that becomes louder.
 
[tap tap tap tap]
 
As he runs, the steps quieten. With a silvery scar winding around his leg up to the knee and a shuddering limp, he leaves the city, hitching lifts with the few drivers brave enough to take a one-shoed, wild-eyed and silent young man with dried blood on his chin. In the new city he listens for footsteps, and eventually he hears them, very distant and quiet.
 
[tap tap tap tap]
 
When they get too close, he moves again. And again. To another city, another town, another village, and the footsteps go away. For a while. For a very little while. But then they start again, quiet at first.
 
[tap tap tap tap]
 
Each time they find him a little more quickly, they are a little louder, bring a little more dampness with them and come a little closer.
 
[tap tap tap tap]
 
One day, because he stays somewhere a little too long, perhaps the footsteps will get a little too close...
 
[tap tap tap tap]

"Hello. Hello?"

Static. Then silence. Then a dialling tone. The calls had been happening for years. The phone company had checked the line again and again, but with no success. So, I just lived with them. Assumed that there was some kind of glitch. Mildly irritating, but not a big deal.

And then, after a while, the calls started to change. A voice – a very distant voice – that I could almost hear through the crackling. It sounded like a woman, saying something and ending with a sob. But each time, the line went dead.

The calls were on and off. Sometimes days, weeks or even months would go by without one, and then there would be several in a day. I still couldn't quite hear the voice, or what it said, however hard I listened.

The phone stayed in the hall, even when we decorated the house and rearranged all the furniture. When we got cordless phones, the base unit and the chargers stayed on the old-fashioned telephone table. And when we all got mobiles, it was almost the only call we got to the landline. I could have blocked the calls, I could have moved the phone, I could have changed my number, but I didn't. I wasn't sure why, but it just seemed important. When the calls didn’t come, they featured in my dreams. Never quite directly. Just a ringing phone, or a half-heard woman’s voice.

And then the phone rang again, late on a Tuesday night. This time the line was clearer. A familiar voice. She said “Mum”. And I realised I knew what she would say next.

"Mum. I can't go on. I can't do this anymore." She sounded desperate, and I dropped to the floor, clutching the phone. I tried to make her hear me and my shouted words of comfort. But she couldn't. She sobbed, and the line went dead.

I have lived in this house since I was a baby – my mother was only 15 when I was born, and my gran took us both in. My mother ran away about a year later. We spoke on the phone sometimes, and I saw her every now and then, but the occasions became fewer and further between.

Late one Tuesday night, when I was 15, my gran answered the phone. It was my mother. Gran didn’t know that I was close behind her, that I could hear every word. My mother said, “Mum. I can't go on. I can't do this anymore.” Gran called the police. They traced my mother, broke into her shabby flat and found her unconscious on the floor, next to a pile of sleeping pills and a bottle of cheap vodka.
​
I haven't heard the voice since. Not for many years. But I know now why I can never move away or change my number. Because one day the phone could ring again, and I might be able to make her hear my voice. I know that nothing will change. Nothing can change. But perhaps I can let her know that I'm okay. 

Amanda, forty-ish. She’s in a dark shirt, sleeves rolled up, a dark mid-calf skirt and old black boots. Her hair is pinned up on her head. She is wearing a wraparound apron that covers her clothes. There’s a tin bucket and scrubbing brush at her side. She’s leaning on a wooden broom.
 
Hello, do come in! You’ve come to look around. Do bear with me, I’m still tidying up. Actors – such messy people. Just look at this stage – it’s had everything dropped on it over the years. Fake blood. Greasepaint. Tea. Unmentionable things that time we did the Nativity. And muggins here gets to clear it all up of course.

This little theatre’s a part of my life. I met my husband here. He was in East Lynne – you know, the one with the line ‘Dead! Dead! And never called me mother’. There’s a picture of the cast over there. The lady mayoress played Isabel Vane. She was – shall we say – statuesque. Not quite a beautiful and forlorn young woman. He was so wonderful in the play, and so good looking. I started to help out at the theatre just to get to know him. Not on stage, you know – I could never do that – but making tea at rehearsals, helping with props, sweeping the stage after shows. I love hearing that buzz as the audience settle, and then the moment of quiet as the curtain rises, just before the applause starts.

Have you seen all the posters and photos in the entrance? They are from every show we’ve done. You can see my John in them. I’ll show you on your way out. They’ve got a bit dusty, but I’ve only got one pair of hands.

Watch your step – that’s the trapdoor. It’s a bit wobbly. John played the Demon King in a show for the children. They all screamed as he rose up out of the stage in a cloud of smoke. I have to admit that I did too.

John’s such a good actor. I go through his lines with him every night when he is in a play, and his work is so good about letting him take time off for a Wednesday matinee. I think they like having an employee with his name in lights.

There haven’t been any shows lately. I think people are a lot busier now.

​That, up there? That’s the bar. It’s so beautiful. The wooden bar is as smooth as silk. When I polish the wood, the room fills with the smell of beeswax and lavender. It’s dark up there now but when the lights go on, the stained-glass lampshades glow and the wood shines.

We’ve got a green room, and dressing rooms for the ladies and gents. No room for one for the star, but everyone mucks in together.

My John’s in Hay Fever. There’s the poster over there. They say it will all be over by Christmas, but while we’re waiting, people still need to have some fun.

As the curtain fell, I was backstage as always, with my broom and my bucket and my scrubbing brush. I heard planes, and an explosion. No-one left their seats. I wonder where it landed. Those poor folk.

Mind how you go down there – it’s really uneven, and the light’s not working. I’ve been waiting ages for them to sort it out.

Anything else you want to know? I’m sorry you’ve had to do with me, but there’s no-one else around. It’s just I’ve got a lot to do. I need to check out the dressing rooms, as someone always leaves something behind. And I’ve got to get the stage clean. These stains are hard to shift.

The curtain goes up at 3. Always a matinee on Wednesday. Don’t be late – everyone loves Hay Fever.

The old stable was quiet that late Christmas eve night. There was the sheep that had lambed the night before, far too early, asleep in the straw with her skinny and startlingly white twins. The old horse dozing and snuffling gently, occasionally shifting a foot. A couple of half tame farm cats slumbering in the wall-mounted hay rack. And me.

Now that had been a row. Fuelled by the presence of the flaming elf on the shelf, the lack of the Christmas Eve box that "everyone has got, Daddy", the fact that the shop had run out of Brussels sprouts and I should have gone earlier when I was asked, and all the other irritations and tirednesses and not meeting expectations that come along with Christmas, I just exploded. And, so, instead of being lovely-and-cuddly-Christmas-jumper-wearing-reading-stories-in-front-of-the-fire-and hanging-up-the-stockings-Dad, I was in-a-flaming-temper-and-storming-away-from-crying-children-and-hiding-in-the-stable-Dad. And yes, I know, it's not big and not clever and not fair. And I felt horrible. But I knew I couldn't go back in. Not yet. That would show that I was wrong and I wasn't. Well, I didn't think I was. Or was I? Oh, I don't know.

I must have fallen asleep. That's the only way I can explain it. And there must have been a power cut. Because when I opened my eyes the stable was colder and darker, and the light was no longer streaming in from the yard. I sat up; all of a sudden, I'd stopped being grumpy-dad and turned into worried-about-Marion-and-the-kids-dad. I reached into my pocket for my phone, ready to turn the torch on. But it wasn't there. And neither were my trousers. Instead I was wearing some kind of rough fabric tunic, tied round my waist with a piece of cord. I looked out into the yard in the cold light of the moon, and it was my yard but it wasn't. The gates and walls were there but the house was smaller, rougher, more like a hut, and the windows glowed in a soft yellow flickering light, not the harshness of electric bulbs.

I sat back down, abruptly, and that's when I saw her. A girl, she couldn't have been more than 20, holding a baby wrapped up in linen. There were still streaks of blood on his tiny wrinkled face, and she tenderly wiped them away with her thumb. I smelled the tang of blood and shit and sweat and earth and damp straw. The smell of birth. A man was with her, and he looked down with such love and grief at the two faces, one sweat-stained and exhausted and joyful, the other small and perfect and sleeping. I could see the tears on his cheeks and in his beard, glinting in the moonlight.

I looked around, and I swore the sheep and her lambs, and the horse, were watching the figures. Even the cats' eyes glinted green in the darkness. At the door, silhouetted against the frosted cobbles, there was a goat and a cow peering in, and between their hooves there were mice, rats and rabbits, a dove and a couple of hens. The only sound was the purring of the cats.

I stood up suddenly, and hit my head hard on the hay rack. The world flashed white, and the last thing I remember, before tumbling unceremoniously into the straw, was all those sets of eyes looking at me and the sweet sleepy smile of the girl. And then dark.

The cold woke me up this time, and the light – a sharp bright morning, full of frost and sun and farm noises. I was laying in the straw next to the sheep and her twins. I rubbed my head. No bruise. Checked my pockets. There was my phone. And no girl or baby or goats. Just my wife's voice.

"Morning sweetheart," she said. "Assumed that you'd fallen asleep after lambing her – it must have been after two that you came out. She looks fine – daft old girl."

"It's not… Christmas morning… what…"

"You're still asleep – it's Christmas eve, you daft old farmer. Did you have a nip of something to keep the cold out? There's a brew on in the kitchen." She started to walk back to the farm house, and then turned back, a touch of exasperation. "I don't suppose you…"

She sighed.

"Well, we'll just have to…"

The sprouts! And if it was Christmas eve… that was the weirdest dream.

"I'll nip out to the farm shop first," I said, standing up and shaking the straw out of my jumper. Graeme's still got some Brussels, I think. And if not, he can share his. He owes us for letting his tup out early and getting the old girl here up the duff. And how about I get the girls something for Christmas Eve. A book or a game or something? They've actually been quite good, I suppose."

I grinned. And she grinned back. A real grin, rather than the strained smile I've seen a lot lately. As I turned towards the stable door, something white caught my eye. I stooped to pick it up. It was a scrap of white linen, with the fleeting smell of new life. Sometimes, we do get a fresh start. However unlikely it seems.

It was a cold night, that Christmas eve night, as we walked back from the pub. Warmed from the fire and the food and the beer, we hunkered down inside hats and scarves and coats and boots, trying to hold onto the heat as we stepped out of the door. Every surface glittered like diamonds, reflecting the chill light of the distant stars. Behind the long snaking dry stone walls, sheep huddled together, and the night was so still and quiet we could hear them breathing. The hills rose up either side of us, crisp white with snow and bathed in the cold light of the full moon. Etched with the blue-black shadows of the winter trees and the footsteps of the fox.

As we dropped down into the village, the windows of the church glowed with the flickering gold of candlelight and the warmth of centuries-old stained glass. Around the edges of the door leaked light and sound, the sweet melancholy of In the Bleak Midwinter and the quiet rumble of prayer.
​
Tiny white and blue lights edged the trees, lighting our way as we walked through the streets, our footsteps muffled and creaking in the snow that had only stopped falling a few hours before. We tiptoed into the house, not wanting to break the mood of stillness, and stayed silent, arms around each other, bathed in the glow of the damped down fire and the lights of the tree. And as we stood there, the church bells pealed Christmas through the cold night air. 

This was her hourglass, and when I flip it over, I can hear her voice, bickering with me about how long to boil an egg. Telling me I've thought long enough, and it's time to put the Scrabble letters on the board. Asking me to tell her when the time's up so that she can pour the perfect four-minute cup of tea. Laughing as I time her putting up her waist length hair to go to work. Insisting that she was only going to be out in the garden for five minutes, and grinning when she came back to find me standing in the doorway, hourglass in hand.

It was in my pocket that night. I was home before her, and I was getting ready to make bread. I'd mixed the yeast and the warm water and the sugar. The timer was broken, so I'd decided to let the hourglass run through four times to give the mixture time to froth. It wasn't really necessary but watching the sand run through the glass in the sleepy warm afternoon sunshine was soothing, almost hypnotic. The sound of the crash took a moment to work its way into my befuddled head.

It was all done by the time I got to the garden gate. A man sat inside the deep red Jaguar, his hair falling forwards, his face blank and white. And tucked underneath the gleaming front bumper, her bicycle. She was face down, still and quiet, her tweed skirt rucked up around her knees, her white silk shirt growing pink. And a cascade of late cabbage roses and heady sweet peas scattered around her. When I close my eyes, all I can see is her pink lace slip, her favourite, almost frivolous under the hem of her sensible skirt.

The ambulance arrived in seconds, or in days, I'm not quite sure which, and I was shooed away by the capable and set-faced men in uniform. We didn't have a car, but Mr Jenkins, our neighbour, drove me over to the hospital.

They wouldn't let me in to see her. I was only her landlady, the spinster she shared a house with. I found the hourglass in my pocket – it must have been in my hand as I ran out of the door. It was wrapped tight in my fingers when I heard her voice, quiet, tense, asking for me. But still they wouldn't let me in. All they wanted to know from me was whether she had any family, and where they were. I told them what I knew.

They left me alone, and I turned the hourglass over and over, but I didn't hear her voice any more. I must have dozed in that hard wooden chair, because the next I heard was an auxiliary, rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the polished floor, with an elderly woman on her arm. Later, a frantic call for a nurse, running feet, and then a doctor, walking quietly, a man in no hurry. And I knew.

On the long, cold bus journey home, the hourglass turned and glinted under my fingers, under the early morning streetlights, and all I could think was at least she didn't die alone.

Her brother came to clear her things, and he treated me civilly, distantly. No discomfort, just the politeness reserved for staff. He told me about the funeral, and seemed surprised when I turned up. I sat at the back, looking at the grieving family in the front two rows. I said my silent goodbyes. And I never had another… tenant.

I've still got the hourglass, and now, watching the sand running though, it feels I'm seeing my future running through into my past.

I might give it to my niece, when she marries her girlfriend next weekend, in the registry office right next to the beautiful park. We will have a picnic in the sunshine, she said.

I might tell her what I have told no-one else, about the woman who, in a different life, could have been her aunt.

I think she might understand.

My baby Florence hated thunderstorms. She would come running home to me and hide herself in my skirts, pulling the cloth over her face so she couldn't hear the thunderclaps or see the flashes of lightning.

We get a lot of thunderstorms here in Natchez, and she would know when they were coming, even before the sky got dark. Her poppa called her his little weathervane, and would go and get the chickens in as soon as he saw her run to me. Even the dog – who hated thunderstorms almost as much as she did – knew to hide when he saw her clinging to my apron. The cat – well, you know cats. It was almost as if the cat would shrug and say, 'it don't bother me'. But in the worst of the storms, Poppy the cat would curl up with Florence and they would comfort each other.

Florence is my youngest. All the others, well, they were nearly grown up when she was born. I thought that there would be no more babies. That my time for that was past. And then along came Florence. She was the prettiest baby – hair so blonde it was almost white, and big wide blue eyes like a china doll. And she was so good. Slept right through from the beginning. Never needed telling off – well, not very often. She wasn't an angel after all. Just a lovely little girl. She charmed her big brothers and sisters. Loved her books. And she hardly ever cried, except in a thunderstorm.

Florence said that storms felt like the sky was shouting at her and the wind was chasing her. And the lightning made her eyes hurt. She was so brave about everything else. It was just storms that scared her.

That last time she came running to me, I thought there must be a storm coming. But the sky was a clear bright blue and there wasn't a sign of a cloud. Then I felt the heat of her skin right through my skirts. I looked at her. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were glassy. She said that her head hurt, and everything ached. And that she felt sick. My mouth went dry. I'd heard about the boats bringing in the slaves to pick the cotton. The boats with the dreaded butter-coloured flag that showed they had yellow jack on board.
Dr Parsons came over, and said he thought she might have yellow fever, but he doubted it. And even if she did, that she'd would get better in a few days. She was young and strong. I sat with her day and night, bathing her head with a cold flannel, and on the fifth night her fever broke. She woke up and smiled at me. I gave her a drink, and she drifted back to sleep, her forehead cool and her breathing regular.

I slept for what seemed like the first time in days, curled up in a chair in her room, and my husband must've come in, because when I woke up, I had a blanket tucked over me.

I looked over at Florence, and I saw straight away that the fever was back. She woke and whispered that her belly ached, it ached so much. When she opened her eyes, the whites were just tinged with a little bit of yellow, and I knew. That was the longest week of my life. Dr Parsons came and went. My husband tried to get me to go to bed, to sleep, to eat. I couldn't leave Florence's side. I tried to keep her cool, to get her to take sips of broth. I prayed to God until my knees were sore, not to take away my ten-year-old baby. I pleaded with her to get well. But whatever I did, her skin turned bronze and her eyes became bright yellow. And she slipped a little further away from me each day.

I knew the end was near when the cat, who never came upstairs, curled up at her side. As she took her last breath, I heard the first rumble of thunder.

I wept all night. Wept for my baby. Held her against the storm, just in case wherever she was, she was still afraid. And then in the morning, I wept all the more that I wouldn't be able to comfort her when she was in the ground. My husband held me tight.

I've always loved drawing. And I started to draw. A tiny coffin with a window in the side so that I could see her face. A stairway down to the grave, to a wall with a window. A set of doors at the top of the steps that would shield me from the storm. A headstone that read ' As bright and affectionate a Daughter as ever God with His Image blest'. And so, her grave was built. And I go down the stairs and read and sing to my baby Florence during every storm, like I always have.
​
I've just seen the clouds coming in. There's a storm on the way. I must go to Florence. 

500 g butter
Eating dad's homemade bread in front of the gas fire in the sitting room. Hot bread and cold, cold butter.
 
1 cup sugar
Using the coffee grinder part of the blender to turn granulated into castor sugar.
 
The sweet scent of the twisted black vanilla pod in the old coffee jar full of sugar for baking.
 
Sugar on buttery toast as a treat.
 
1 tin condensed milk
Dad making condensed milk sandwiches on soft white bread, and us giggling as it dripped down our chins.
 
Scraping out the last scraps of sweet, sticky condensed milk from the bottom of the tin.
 
5 cups SR flour
The pleasing soft thump of flour as mum pours it into the bowl, and the silky coolness of it under my fingers.
 
Mum guiding me as I rub in lard and butter to make pastry, her fingers cold next to mine.
 
Cream butter and sugar
Gold turning to white in the old orange mixing bowl, and the sound of the electric beaters on the hard plastic, as mum captures the last scraps of butter and sugar.
 
Dad showing me how if you over-whip cream it turns into tiny golden grains of butter, hard won but tasting so much better than anything from a shop.
 
The strange glass contraption that makes butter into substitute cream.
 
Stir in condensed milk and flour to make a firm dough
Scraping the bowl after mum made cakes.
 
Wrapping my tongue around the not quite sharp edges of the rotary whisk, the one with the burgundy Bakelite handle and the crack that pinches an unwary palm.
 
Roll into balls and press with a fork, or freeze in rolls and slice
The sound of the knife on the Pyrex plate rim as mum trims the excess pastry, and the indentations left by her first finger and thumb as she crimps the edges to seal the pie tight. Two slits in the centre to let out the steam.
 
Making jam tarts and little pasties with the scraps of pastry left over.
 
Cook at 170-180 degrees for about 12 minutes
Mum putting half a Victoria sponge in the freezer and Dad complaining that we only ever got a round cake when we had visitors.
 
The house filling with the smell of warm sweetness on a Saturday afternoon.