Christmas on Rosemary Lane. Ellen Berry

dad regarded him steadily as they waited at a red light. ‘You think I don’t know you threw all that food away.’

      ‘What food?’

      ‘My sandwiches!’

      James let out a gasp of exasperation. ‘Oh, Dad. I was just trying to clear out the—’

      ‘Well, don’t try anything,’ Kenny said firmly. ‘You know I hate waste.’

      As they fell into a rather surly silence on the drive back to Burley Bridge, James wondered what to do next. The thought of suggesting to his father than he might be suffering from anything more than perpetual ill humour filled him with horror. But then, James was an adult man of forty-one, and sometimes, being an adult required one to face up to bloody awful situations and figure out a way of dealing with them.

      No matter how maddening he was, and how fervently he railed against the idea of any kind of ‘help’, James was determined that he would not let his father down.

       Chapter Ten

      Sometimes it was hard for Lucy to remember what she was like before the accident. But, somehow, the weeks had gone on and she was still here, alive. Christmas had happened, apparently, although naturally it had been a write-off. Lucy’s parents had arrived at Rosemary Cottage, and Lucy had a vague recollection of a few presents and a cobbled-together dinner, and her mother cooking and cooking as the days went on – mostly pies, as it happened, as if copious quantities of pastry might save them all. But Lucy was still a mother herself, which required her to be stoic and strong – all those motherly things – so she did her best and tried not to fall to pieces in front of Marnie and Sam.

      You were supposed to hold it together, just because you’d given birth. You had to comfort your children when they were inconsolable and stand there, clutching their hands because you’d decided it was best for them to go to Daddy’s cremation, to say goodbye properly with the other people who loved him. As if you were capable of making any kind of rational decision. Should they have gone? Was it too traumatising for them, even though Lucy had somehow got it together to find a young, female celebrant who had followed her request to make the ceremony a celebration of Ivan’s life?

      It was beautiful – everyone had said so. Well, nearly everyone. Lucy became convinced that Ivan’s mother, Penny, had glanced at her with fury – as if she thought she were somehow to blame for the accident. Perhaps she was being hypersensitive, and of course, his parents were devastated too. Ivan had been their only child, and although they were hardly demonstrative, she knew they adored him. Back in their North London semi, his childhood bedroom had remained just as he’d left it when he’d departed for university at eighteen years old.