Twenty-Two
Ma wasn’t in the woods. I was sure because I’d been over every square metre with a strong torch. Even the bit in the middle where the brambles are fierce. She wasn’t in the gardens either and she hadn’t crept round the house to the lawns at the front. Nor was she in any of the sheds, outhouses, stables and so on that lie like drunken tramps around the east side of the house, some still standing but wobbly, the rest collapsed and offering shelter only to spiders, mice and the occasional bird – none of whom were pleased to be roused by the beam of my torch.
By the time I’d finished looking, I was tired, scratched, grubby and festooned with spider webs. Brambles 5, Jen 0. And my ankle hurt where a loose stone on a step into the tool shed had leapt up and whacked me.
And did I me
