Isla
Brock and I stay away. Or, on the other hand, rather, I stay away from him. He eats a ton – a great deal of toast, three or four singed eggs all at once, entire packs of pasta with softened margarine and ground cheddar. He is useful, flies to the Co-operation in Swanage in his mum's vehicle, and prepares suppers I have no craving except for which he wolfs. As of now, his tone has returned, his face rounded out a little since the thin, close skeleton he was in court. I make an effort not to allow his rapid recuperation to trouble me, do whatever it takes not to ponder the missing money, the thought that he is too glad in his opportunity. I see him grin to himself some of the time when he believes I'm not looking. I don't utter a word.
However, whatever I shove to the aside during
