Ma’s reply was not unexpected but it was a weight off my mind.
Of course, part of me still hoped for a miracle to happen before the operation became necessary – or at least that some new treatment would become available over here. But logically, I knew that it was unlikely that the cavalry would come riding to my rescue over the brow of the hill, and the most I could hope for was that Stella’s condition didn’t worsen over the coming year.
Since she was born I’d learned to live in the present, but nothing could stop me dreaming of a future.
After a magical Christmas, when Stella seemed to be eating well and growing stronger, as she always did in Sticklepond, it had been quite a shock when she became ill with breathing difficulties and a rocketing temperature right after we got home, and was rushed into hospital.
What would be a minor sniffle cured by a dose of Calpol in a normal child became a near-miss with pneumonia for Stella, and though luckily they quickly got her stabilised and her temperature down, it was a week before she could come home, clingy, pale and exhausted by the least exertion.
It was another setback but – more than that – I’d seen the writing on the wall. Even before the consultant suggested contacting Dr Rufford Beems in Boston about bringing forward the date of the operation, I’d told Ma I was putting the flat on the market.
The operation had been booked for the coming autumn. All I had to do was raise a vast amount of money, and keep my darling child from catching any more infections between now and October, when we were to leave …
To say I was stressed out was an understatement, and after comfort-eating four microwave-in-a-mug chocolate cakes in quick succession, when it got to the fifth I started thinking of ways to jazz them up a bit and came up with Black Forest gateau variation.
I sent the recipe off to Sweet Home magazine with some others I’d stockpiled, and the editor liked it so much she slipped it into the April edition (which of course, as is the way with magazines, came out in March) instead of a raisin roll one.
In the same April issue, Celia was showing the readers how to create friendship bracelets from old buttons, and Will had an article about making found-object pictures using an old frame he found in a skip, bits of driftwood, sea-washed fragments of glass, and shells.
A lot of the stuff you find these days washed up on beaches after high tide you wouldn’t want to stick in a picture, but Celia and Will never seem to notice anything ugly, only what is good and beautiful.
You know, before we met him, when Will had only just started sending articles about his driftwood sculptures into the magazine, we used to jokingly call him Wooden Willie. But once we’d met him we liked him so much we never did again.
When Celia went to live in Southport with him I really missed her, so at least once the flat’s sold and we’ve moved in with Ma I’ll be living near her and I can file my Sweet Home articles from Lancashire like they do. Stella always seemed both happier and healthier in Sticklepond, too.
I was pretty sure Ma was dreading it even more than I was, so it was with mixed feelings that I picked up the phone on the same brisk March day that the Sweet Home magazine came out, to tell her I’d had offers on the flat at full asking price – luckily two people had wanted it – and accepted the one who could complete quickest.
‘I’m flabbergasted you’ve sold it so fast,’ she said. ‘Fancy someone paying all that money for a space no bigger than a shoebox, and down a hole, too.’
Ma had never been a big fan of basement living … and come to think of it, neither had Toto, since we only had the little paved area at the front for him to go out into, the garden belonging to the flat above.
‘It’s still not going to be quite enough,’ I said. ‘The expenses for the trip seem to go up all the time – lots of things I hadn’t thought of before, like finding insurance and paying for somewhere Stella can convalesce before coming home.’
‘What about those people at the magazine – weren’t they supposed to be doing some fundraising?’
‘Yes, and they raised quite a bit, but now they’ve moved on to the next Big Cause,’ I said. ‘Celia and Will are planning some fundraising events, and there’s been a steady trickle of small donations into the Stella’s Stars website – that had quite a boost when the evening paper did a story about us – but once we’re in Sticklepond I’ll have to come up with a few new ideas for the rest.’
‘And when do you think that might be?’ she asked.
‘Well, that’s the thing: it’s a cash buyer who just wants a pied-à-terre in London, so it should all go through very quickly.’
‘Well, I don’t know, he must have more money than sense,’ she said, slapping down the flat vowels like so many wet fish onto a marble slab.
She sounded more Lancashire every time I spoke to her. Despite her cottage being on the outskirts of the village, and her reclusive streak, when she moved there she’d slipped straight back into the fabric of Sticklepond like a hand into a glove.
‘Ma, I can’t help thinking it’s a major imposition,’ I confessed. ‘And I feel so guilty, because you’ve made everything just how you like it and are enjoying your life up there.’
‘Well, you’re not going to put the dampers on that, are you? We all get on fine when you and Stella come up to stay, and the studio is separate so you won’t affect my work. And if I want a bit of peace, I’ve got my garden room at the back of the house to escape into.’
This was true: and when we stayed she often vanished in there in the evenings, where she read old crime novels or watched endless battered and slightly fuzzy Agatha Christie videos.
But it was very much my mother’s house and besides, both of us were used to having our own space. I would so miss my little flat …
‘Oh, well,’ I sighed, ‘at least you know it won’t be for ever.’
‘True. I expect when Stella’s had her operation and is well again, you’ll want to move back to London and pick up your career. But I won’t be putting you out on the street, however long it takes.’
‘Yes …’ I paused. ‘Ma, we do seem to have a lot more possessions than I thought we did, once I started tidying up the flat to show buyers around. Perhaps when we move up I could rent a storage unit somewhere nearby.’
‘There can’t be that much in such a little flat.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ I told her.
‘My car can live outside then, and we’ll store some of your things in the garage. It’s dry in there and we can cover it all up with dustsheets.’
‘That’s true: it must be the only carpeted garage in Lancashire … and possibly the country.’
‘Don’t mock my garage,’ she said severely. ‘I happened to have the old carpet when I had the sitting room one replaced and it seemed like a good idea.’
‘I’ll buy your car one of those waterproof covers,’ I promised, because I knew she loved her little black Polo hatchback.
‘It’s only a car, love – you save every penny for Stella’s fund. I got the librarian to show me the Stella’s Stars webpage when I was down there earlier. She wanted me to sign up for the Silver Surfers First Wave course, so I could check it myself, but I told her there was nothing else on the internet I wanted to look at.’
My mother is not much past sixty and her short mop of curling hair isn’t silver, but hennaed a red so vibrant