Dancing with Mr. Darcy Part 2

'There certainly are not so many men of large fortune in the world as there are pretty women to deserve them,' I said.

He looked perplexed.

'Mansfield Park,' I told him. 'Jane Austen.'

The exam tomorrow. A drafty dusty hall, biros on the desk. I'll do the rest of the modules, finish the course; pay the fees. Buy the flat, have financial security, spend the rest of my life doing what I want to do. I'll be too old for it soon anyway, the age of some of the girls coming through. A career where a woman is worthless by the age of twenty-five. It's a disgrace.

I stretch an arm behind me, arch my back.

'That's beautiful,' the photographer says. He sn.i.g.g.e.rs behind snaggled, cracked teeth. 'It's t.i.t-riffic.'

Oh. Yuk. Lord, what fools these mortals be!

My inspiration: Despite the fact that many of Jane Austen's novels are considered love stories, I think there's a hard, pragmatic edge in how her characters speak about cla.s.s and money that is often overlooked. W. H. Auden said that it made him 'uncomfortable' to see her 'describe the amorous effects of '"bra.s.s" / Reveal so frankly and with such sobriety/ The economic basis of society'. Given this, I wanted to create a character who had this same pragmatic edge about money, in a very modern day context.

THE DELAFORD LADIES' DETECTIVE AGENCY.

Elizabeth Hopkinson.

This was going to be a most interesting case, thought Mrs Reverend Ferrars, as her sister, Mrs Colonel Brandon, poured tea for the lady sitting nervously in the small parlour of Delaford Parsonage. So far her talents as a detective had mainly been used to ascertain the true characters of potential suitors or to a.s.sure nervous mammas that their daughters were truly engaged (although there had been that unforgettable incident with Mrs Ellis's chickens). She was looking forward to something a little more challenging.

Of course, it had come as a surprise to her to find she was a detective at all. When she had first arrived in Delaford, she had naturally expected simply to support dear Edward, take baskets to the cottages and raise a handful of plump, well-behaved children. Sadly, the latter had not been forthcoming, and while Mrs Ferrars might envy her sister the third swelling beneath her day gown, she knew better than to brood on what might have been. Occupation was a great comforter, and Mrs Ferrars had found one well suited to her temperament. People had always confided in her (in the cases of Lucy Steele and Mr Willoughby, not always with her willing agreement) and she found she had the kind of sharp mind that relished a puzzle.

'Pray, make yourself at ease, Mrs Worthing,' she said, with the rea.s.suring smile she generally used on such occasions. 'Mysteries, I find, are rather like knots in one's embroidery thread. They may look impossible, but they always unravel in the end.'

It was important to say something like that, Mrs Ferrars found. Mystery, on the whole, was something she profoundly disliked. It had uncomfortable a.s.sociations with Gothic ruins and over-emotional young ladies in white gowns. Being able to rid it from the neighbourhood was something that had encouraged her to keep going after the success of her initial case with Miss Morton's coded Valentine. Detecting was a service to society, and therefore an occupation very worthy of a parson's wife.

'Oh, do not mention embroidery thread,' sniffed Mrs Worthing, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Mrs Ferrars began to suspect her of sensibility or worse still sentimentality. 'Not when a ghostly presence comes each night to my work basket and works on my embroidery my very own embroidery while Delaford Park lies in slumber.'

Mrs Ferrars stiffened slightly. 'Lies in slumber,' had sealed her opinion of Mrs Worthing.

'Only think of it, Elinor,' said Mrs Brandon, helping herself to a Banbury cake behind their guest's back. 'All this time I have been living in a haunted mansion. I'm sure I shall never sleep again at the thought of something so horrid. And to think that Colonel Brandon never told me.'

Mrs Ferrars secretly suspected there was nothing her sister would like more than to live in a haunted mansion, but now was not the time to mention it.

'Oh come, Marianne,' she said. 'Colonel Brandon has enough ghosts in his past without bringing them into his house. Have you questioned the other house guests? The servants?'

'Of course,' Mrs Brandon eyed the last remaining cake with longing. 'And they all say the same thing. No one has seen or heard anything. Only the Misses Hart do say they can feel a ghastly chill around the basket.'

Mrs Ferrars sniffed. She could imagine well enough how effective Marianne's questions had been. She looked back to Mrs Worthing with a twinkle in her eye.

'You know, you could always take your work basket to bed with you.'

'And never discover what ails the poor, tortured soul? Oh, Mrs Ferrars, do not suggest such a thing.'

As Mrs Worthing applied the handkerchief yet again, Mrs Ferrars thought of several things she could suggest a more instructive diet of reading for one thing but she resisted. It was certainly time for the light of reason to be shed on Delaford Park.

'Mrs Worthing, leave the matter to me,' she said.

The house guests at Delaford Park, although unknown to Mrs Ferrars, were not unlike the guests at any country house, and private conversation with each about the embroidery yielded only fantastical supposition on the part of the ladies (Mrs Worthing and her two rather empty-headed sisters, the Misses Hart) or total lack of interest on the part of the gentlemen. These comprised Colonel Brandon, Mr Worthing (who appeared to take no interest in anything beyond coa.r.s.e fishing and eating) and an army friend of the Colonel's named Major Black, a pale, quiet man not unlike the Colonel himself. No one was prepared to offer anything useful. They had seen nothing, nor did they have any suggestions as to why Mrs Worthing's embroidery seemed to have decided to finish itself.

Mrs Ferrars hoped to have better success with Miss Amelia Black, the Major's sister. There was something in her eye which suggested rather more of quickness than the other ladies, and Mrs Ferrars was glad to approach her in the privacy of the walled garden.

'Good afternoon, Mrs Ferrars.' Miss Black looked up and curtseyed. 'Mrs Brandon has told me all about you. I am most impressed. Generally, if a woman knows anything, she should conceal it as well as she can. To make use of your intellect as you do is a bold thing indeed.'

'I only make use of it privately.' Mrs Ferrars did not wish to be thought inappropriate. 'And only in cases which concern ladies, as with this matter of the embroidery. Now tell me, Miss Black, what do you know? You do not give credence to this tale of a ghost, do you?'

'Oh, no.' There was just a hint of something in her eyes as she spoke. Perhaps fear, Mrs Ferrars thought. She had believed Miss Black to be calm and rational when she first began to speak, but now Mrs Ferrars noticed she was plucking at her sleeve, although she kept smiling. 'Perhaps Mrs Worthing completes it herself, for her own amus.e.m.e.nt.'

'Perhaps. Yes, perhaps that is it. If you are quite sure you have not worked on it yourself, or seen another do so.'

'No, not at all.' Miss Black curtseyed again. 'If you will excuse me, Mrs Ferrars.'

Mrs Ferrars now felt she had the full measure of Miss Black. She was hiding something. But that was only part of the investigation. It was one thing to discover that a person was lying, quite another to discover why or what about. And delicacy was everything. It was time to take a different approach.

She stepped towards the dovecote. 'Mrs Worthing, may I please see your embroidery?'

Mrs Worthing's embroidery was, thought Mrs Ferrars, dully unexceptional, especially considering it was at the heart of such an intrigue. She had always found white st.i.tches upon white muslin to be particularly tedious, and there was far too much feather st.i.tch to render it truly interesting. Mrs Worthing, however, took great pride in showing it to her.

'This part was worked by my hand. And this part,' her fingers trembled as she touched it, 'was worked by the ghost.'

Mrs Ferrars held it up to the light. She feared that she would soon begin to need spectacles. Certainly, there was a difference between the two styles. Mrs Worthing's was neat and reminded one of embroidery lessons in the schoolroom. The second hand showed more imagination, if less precision.

'And is Miss Amelia Black's embroidery close by?'

Mrs Worthing blushed at the ungenteel concept of opening another lady's work basket.

'Pray, do not stand upon ceremony, Mrs Worthing,' said Mrs Ferrars. 'You may always complain to my husband if you disapprove of my morals.'

Mrs Worthing reluctantly pointed out the basket and Mrs Ferrars examined the work within. Again, the style was different, but it did not match that of the 'ghost'. Clearly, if Miss Black did know something, she was covering for another person. With a sigh, Mrs Ferrars went about examining the work baskets of the other ladies, Marianne included. Mrs Worthing was beside herself with horror.

'If the ghost should be a lady whose work basket was once disturbed...oh, Mrs Ferrars, please desist!'

Mrs Ferrars scowled. None of the styles of embroidery resembled the second hand on Mrs Worthing's muslin. She could have Marianne question the servants again, but then there was the behaviour of Amelia Black to consider. Miss Black was unlikely to lie for a servant in someone else's household. There had to be another possibility she had not considered.

In circ.u.mstances such as these when an investigation seemed to be going nowhere Mrs Ferrars invariably consulted the wisdom of Dr Johnson. There were few subjects on which the learned Doctor had not held forth, and Mrs Ferrars found his influence both calming and instructive. In this instance, she recalled his words on the subject of knowledge.

'Knowledge,' Dr Johnson had said, 'is of two kinds. We know a subject ourselves, or we know where we can find information upon it.'

Mrs Ferrars considered how to apply these words to the case in hand. The only information upon the subject of Mrs Worthing's embroidery lay with Amelia Black, but Miss Black was unwilling to give it up. She must therefore seek another source of information or endeavour to know the subject herself. She closed her eyes, temporarily ignoring Mrs Worthing's gasps for the smelling salts. This was no time to dilly-dally. Common sense was at stake. She must know the ghost.

'This is so exciting, Elinor,' Mrs Brandon exclaimed, as she closed the drawing room curtain around her sister. 'I'm sure the Colonel employed spies in the East Indies, but I never thought to be doing so myself.'

'You are doing no such thing, Marianne. Spying is a most unladylike and un-English occupation.' Mrs Ferrars drew the thick, woollen shawl around her shoulders, wishing that night air were not so very injurious to one's health. 'I am simply resting in the window seat for the time being, as I have trouble sleeping. Naturally, you will all be in bed while I do so. It was very kind of Edward to let me stay the night.'

Kind it may be, thought Mrs Ferrars, as Marianne retired, but she was not at all sure that she wouldn't rather be in her own bed at the Parsonage with Edward than waiting on a window seat for a mysterious embroiderer. Supposing the lady in question should be of a desperate nature? No, she felt sure that anyone who worked satin st.i.tch with such delicacy could only be respectable. She would simply have to wait and see.

A light tread in the pa.s.sageway caused her to stiffen. The drawing room door was opening. A more m.u.f.fled tread indicated that someone was crossing the turkey carpet. Mrs Ferrars heard the slight creak of a sofa and the rustle of a work basket being opened. Then there came a sigh, a sigh in a rather lower register than Mrs Ferrars would have expected.

She peered around the curtain. Seated on the sofa was Major Black. His lips were pursed in concentration and he was squinting by the light of a candle he had carried in himself. He was embroidering on Mrs Worthing's muslin and as far as Mrs Ferrars could make out doing so with considerable skill. In fact, if her examination that afternoon was anything to go by, his work was slowly transforming a dull, schoolgirl piece into something remarkably artistic.

Mrs Ferrars dropped the curtain and hugged her knees in silence. Her investigation was at an end (if an unexpected one) but she was left with a dilemma. Obviously, Miss Black did not wish it to be known that her brother secretly indulged in embroidery any more than he would wish it to be known himself. Mrs Ferrars saw no need to create social embarra.s.sment within the Delaford household. On the other hand, she needed to lay the 'ghost' to rest before Mrs Worthing, Marianne and the Misses Hart became any more excitable. She fingered her shawl while Major Black tutted over his French knots. Perhaps there was an answer.

'And I hope you will allow me to make you this gift, Miss Black,' said Mrs Ferrars. 'You will know where to make the best use of it, I am sure. I have informed my sister and Mrs Worthing that the ghost will cease to trouble them in future. It is a pity I never clearly saw the person who worked those remarkable st.i.tches. As I said to Marianne, I fear I shall soon need spectacles. But I would say they had a true talent for needlework. It would be a pity to let it go to waste for lack of a suitable outlet.'

'I'm sure I am most grateful to you.' Miss Black's curtsey covered her confusion, but there was something in her step as she left that suggested greater peace.

The parcel from Mrs Perkins' haberdashery had cost rather more than Mrs Ferrars' small allowance really stretched to, but it was worth it. If Major Black wished to pursue his embroidery, then having materials of his own would make it much more convenient. She was sure his sister would know how to make the gift in a suitably discreet manner.

Of course, Mrs Worthing and Marianne were still not entirely satisfied with Elinor's report that she had seen nothing whatsoever but was convinced that the ghost would leave within two days of all the ladies taking up an instructive course of sermons and essays.

'There's still an air of mystery about this,' Marianne had insisted in whispered tones over breakfast.

Still, that was nothing that a private word with Colonel Brandon could not ease. It was not inconceivable that he had some idea of his former subordinate's skill with a needle. And when she impressed upon him the fact that mystery was, of all things, the most damaging to his wife's health in her condition, she felt sure he would lay down the stamp of reason as firmly as could be wished for.

It was a debatable conclusion, thought Mrs Ferrars, as she arrived back at the Parsonage, to be greeted by a kiss from Edward and a tirade of questions from the maid about the best way to restore fine lace. There had been some deceit involved, which she was not sure was fitting for a parson's wife. But then again, order and reason had been restored and reputations saved, which had to be a good thing.

She turned over a page of Dr Johnson's works that lay on her small table.

'What then is to be done?' she read. 'The more we inquire, the less we can resolve.'

True, thought Mrs Ferrars, but she relished the challenge of inquiring nonetheless. That was what being a detective meant.

My inspiration: Elinor Dashwood seems to be surrounded by mysteries and people telling her their secrets, so I thought it would be fun to cast her in the role of a detective and cross Sense and Sensibility with The No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency.

TEARS FALL ON ORKNEY.

Nancy Saunders.

Dear Jane. I'm on my way to Orkney. At last! I hope you don't mind first name terms. 'Miss Austen' sounds too distant and, even though we are separated by two centuries, I feel you are the one person who will understand where I'm coming from. Love. Isn't that the biggest question of all? I've stumbled from lover to lover with the thirst of someone lost in the desert. For the last two months I've thought of nothing but being here in Kirkwall with Aidan. I have roughly known him for two years. He has brown eyes, sings songs about picking blackberries and can find a joke in anything. He bakes cupcakes filled with apple pieces and cinnamon, and walks everywhere. The last time I saw him he put new strings on my guitar.

I'm travelling all this way, chasing love. Imagine a great mechanical bird, big enough to hold one hundred people, and then picture it 20,000 feet high, flying above the clouds. We chase all over the world like this, in a matter of hours. There's still enough looking-outof-the-window time, which I'm sure you will agree is an essential travelling companion. From my tiny window on the plane to Orkney I can see the hills around Edinburgh lie snug under a blanket of faded green velvet, and the snow on top of the Cairngorms, like gentle spills of cream. From 16,000 feet, the string of islands looks like tiny, far away worlds. When we come down to land all I can see is the sea and then some gra.s.s and then we're b.u.mping along the ground.

I know what you must be thinking. I admire Aidan, and yes I think I have begun to love him. I've pictured us getting married and having a child and we're living in a cottage by the sea, growing vegetables. This is all quite hazy and only gazed at in the fleetest of moments. The pursuit of love is the one activity where I have boundless foolishness and daring.

Aidan meets me at the tiny airport and hugs me tight. We grin at each other like excited children. Then we drive to the sea. I have to change my shoes and while I'm lacing up my boots the clips I'd carefully put in my hair at 6 a.m. blow out in the wind. Aidan doesn't seem to notice. We charge off down the path and through a gate that Aidan points out isn't of the kissing sort; and then we run down to the beach. I find four stones marked with circles. Aidan does this thing where he picks up a stone to show me and as soon as I say, 'Oh that's nice,' he throws it into the sea! He's so funny. I can hardly keep up with him; he springs up the rocks like a goat. We share the last three pieces of my Cadbury's Caramel chocolate that ordinarily I would eat all myself. It's the strangest feeling flying into the moment I've been thinking about for so long.

We run back along the path, pushing each other towards puddles. This is a basic form of what you called the Art of Flirting, I think. As we stand on top of the cliff catching our breath, Aidan says he would like to take some time out to do his music while I'm here, which I say is absolutely fine, even though my heart drops like a stone. We drive to Kirkwall, the main town hunkered down in the bay, the houses and buildings clinging together like barnacles. We have a lunch of chicken and coriander soup that Aidan has made then we walk into town to the museum. It's about to close so we pa.s.s all the gla.s.s cabinets filled with artefacts and have a go at building the model of the cathedral made out of colour-coded blocks to show when each bit had been added. We make our own design with a red turret, a blue east wing and an orange vestry.

Afterwards we go to Tesco's. There are no small shops anymore, only enormous buildings where you can buy everything. We mess about, talking loudly and laughing and Aidan knocks packets of spaghetti off the shelf. People frown at us as if we are drunk. Then Aidan stares at a pretty girl with dark hair. When we pa.s.s her a second time he stands transfixed. We walk back across the quay and he says that the girl was a runner-up in Miss Scotland. 'Really?' I say. 'I didn't notice.'

Aidan races up and down the stairs. All this rushing. He reminds me of Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. It's the part when Dustin Hoffman is on a date with the girl he really likes, but he's charging off in front of her and she can hardly keep up. He leads her into a strip joint (where women dance around bare-breasted in a suggestive manner. You wouldn't believe it, but this was Women's Rights in the 20th century). Dustin Hoffman gawps at the naked women, and the expression of the girl shows her confusion and hurt. I should explain that we have things called Films. They are a little bit like looking at a mirror filled with the reflections of people acting out scenes, like in a play but you can watch it all and it seems real. If only you could see your Mr Darcy, Jane. He's been in two film versions of Pride and Prejudice, and you'd be hard-pressed to choose between Colin Firth and Matthew Macfadyen. They're both dark eyed and smouldering.

It's the end of my first day. Aidan and I have just watched a film. We sat on the sofa together, me in the middle and Aidan leaning up against the far corner. The film claimed to be scary but it wasn't. There was a bit where the man and the woman got stuck in a pa.s.sionate embrace, inside a ruined church deep in snow. When they started undoing each other's b.u.t.tons I said to Aidan things could get chilly. He sniffed, a sort of laugh but not laugh. When the film finished Aidan yawned. He's given up his bed (a double bed) for me, which is kind, and his towel too. I'm lying under his freshly washed sheets, all fired up. My heart is racing. When I saw myself in the mirror I had that sparkly-eyed look of someone who's falling for someone.

It's only the first night and I can't sleep. I think about when I last saw Aidan. He stayed with me for two nights. It was freezing and we walked for miles through the wood to reach the village pub. Over two pints Aidan told me of the time he nearly died but held on because his friend was there and he didn't want to let his friend down. We walked back through the wood after dark. The moon was full and its silver light gleamed off the naked trees. When we got home and warmed ourselves in front of the fire, all I could think about was covering Aidan's face with soft kisses. Instead I poked the logs in the fire. He reached out and touched my hair. We played roulette until we could play no more; then we said goodnight.

Wednesday. It doesn't look like it's raining but it is. We sit in the kitchen drinking Guatemalan coffee and watching the ferry push its way through the bay to Shapinsay. I imagine you did a great deal of tea drinking and looking out at the rain. Outside in the field a pattern of oystercatchers are digging for worms with their long, orange beaks. Aidan keeps singing the first line of 'Getting to know you'. We fall into one of our talks. Aidan likes to pull apart the reasoning of life, to show there's nothing holding it up but perception. He says he feels no desire, and asks me, 'What is a person?' I try to explain that we are driven beings with the need to make sense of the world and the people in it. He asks me, 'What is anger?' I try to explain about emotions, how necessary they are. I say that as far as I can see, his views are a form of defence. He says that if you stare at a single point for long enough, everything else in your vision blacks out.

We go for a walk in the rain, along a path that hugs the sea; our heads bent against the cold. The rocks are littered with plastic tubing and buoys washed up from the nearby fishery. As usual Aidan walks as if there's somewhere else he'd rather be. 'You have two modes,' I call out. 'The first is Aidan Jokey Mode, and the second, Aidan Words Mean Nothing.' He smiles, unsure. He asks me about the film we watched. He says there were a lot of flashbacks for such a simple story. I agree. The motivations of the characters were way too obvious. Aidan leads me to a bench facing out to sea. He shows me two names carved into the wood. 'Dan and Sophie; they came to stay. One evening they went out for a walk, sat on this bench. When they came back Sophie said Dan had asked her to marry him. She said yes.' 'How romantic.' I say. Then we turn and walk away.

We're sitting on the sofa in the sunny room with a view right across the bay, and our conversation accidentally touches on love. I ask Aidan, 'what are your pre-requisites?' He crosses his arms. 'I don't have any. Things just happen.' I want to remind him of the time he told me how a girl had broken his heart. I want to ask 'How can a man with no desire have his heart broken?'

When we pop in to see Aidan's brother and his wife, it's like the two of us dropping by. I watch Aidan while everyone is talking, and I am filled with that quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort of happiness. I stole the words right out of your mouth, but they fit so well, Jane, I couldn't help it. Aidan says he may get married one day and have children. He says it like he might pop out to the shops for a pint of milk.

Oh, Jane. What was it you said about the anxiety of expectation and the pain of disappointment? It's Friday night already and we're going to bed early (separately) to catch the small plane to North Ronaldsay first thing in the morning. It's a trip Aidan's organised for the weekend with a group of his friends all women! He said it's not like their s.e.x is relevant. I beg to differ. I'd like to see his face if I asked him to stay with four gorgeous blokes and me as the lucky girl. This trip will be a Test of Character type experience. To bed: enough of dreaming.

I knew it. The four women are beautiful. Not only that, they are French and German and Scottish, which means they speak with voices to melt any man. Their names are Odette and Silke, Ailean and Innes. While we're waiting for the plane they sit quietly, hardly speaking. I want to hate them and I almost do, but I can't because they are friendly which is worse, because I feel loathsome and want to crawl back under my stone. I can't help watching how Aidan is: whether he laughs longest with Innes, his gaze is deeper for Silke or his hand lingers on Ailean's arm. Between him and Odette, something hangs unspoken. When we arrive the others squeeze around the tiny kitchen table in the hostel. I don my waterproof trousers and march off into the drizzle.

I am much calmed by my walk. I lean over a wall and watch the seals lounging about on the rocks. They lie with their backs against the cold, sharp edges, peering at me from upside down. They scratch and clap their feet, as if relaxing on chaise longues and deep-pile carpets. Mist floats down over the sea and I feel the peace that often comes with being alone.

Jane, this is not the first time I've fallen down the well of my own vanity. I've seen meaning in the few hopeful words Aidan has given me, words that could just as easily have been offered in friendship. It's like reaching the top of a mountain only to find that I'm the same person I was when I set out. It is the view that's changed. It's exhilarating; yet I feel like a small balloon not quite set free.

At dusk the six of us slip across rocks in the rain, clambering down to the beach. We watch the strange sight of sheep eating seaweed by the edge of the sea, their delicate legs like burnt matchsticks, lightly tripping over the rocks. We wait for each other as we clamber along. Perhaps we're each a little in love with Aidan. In the evening we eat pasta and drink wine and play charades, shrieking with laughter at each other's frantic mimes, our damp coats hanging over doors and our faces pink. What a desolate island this is; how spellbindingly beautiful.

In the morning the sun is soft and the sky an unblemished blue. We head out for a walk along the sandy beach stripped bare by the tide. We move along, sometimes together in pairs, sometimes scattered apart. Aidan runs up behind me and hurls us both towards the oncoming waves. He shows me an empty sh.e.l.l then hurls it out to sea. Then he picks up a small piece of wood smoothed into the shape of a wave. I wait for him to throw it away, but he gives it to me and I hold it in my hand. When he isn't looking I tuck it inside my pocket. On the way back we pa.s.s a field of lapwings dancing in the air. They suddenly drop and roll, their paddle-shaped wings flapping about drunkenly, then up again; their wheezing, bubbling song catching on the wind.

While I'm packing up my waterproofs, Aidan and Odette are covering each other in pretend punches and karate kicks. A little later Odette looks at me and says, 'you've caught the sun.'

My last day. I help Aidan strip the bed. He says if he washes everything now he can move back in to his room tonight. Jane, I'm one step closer to knowing myself. Love if it does shouldn't it just happen?

Aidan tells me of a time he flew away from Orkney. He says tears rolled down his face. He doesn't call it crying. He just says, 'The tears kept on falling.'

We say goodbye.

Later, flying away, I cry.

My inspiration: I wanted to capture a little of Jane Austen's universal truths. Unrequited love seemed to be high on the list; it also has a timeless quality an affliction human beings will continue to endure despite the world changing around them. Jane was also a prodigious letter writer a format she perhaps considered a safe place in which to write down her true feelings. I wanted to mirror this in the style of the story. It was only when I finished writing that I realised my narrator had remained nameless. Perhaps the mark of a truly universal 'I'.

EIGHT YEARS LATER.

Elaine Grotefeld.