thirty-five
The bus was uncomfortably hot on Monday morning. By ten o’clock, the temperature had risen to the mid twenties and, with most of the windows screwed shut in an attempt to combat vandalism, the atmosphere seemed muggy and oppressing. Elizabeth had the misfortune to sit next to a man with an out-of-control toddler who was zapping the entire bus with a water pistol. She was relieved to alight at her stop. The bodice of her summer dress was thoroughly soaked and the bedraggled sight of her subsequently elicited jeers from a group of nearby workmen. She folded her arms across her chest, her face burning with embarrassment and stalked down the tree-lined avenue to the care home.
‘Good morning,’ Lyn chirruped, like a happy little sparrow who’d just found a pile of nuts.
‘Morning.’
