One Moment, One Morning by Sarah Rayner

Author:Sarah Rayner [Rayner, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Tags: Fiction, General
ISBN: 9781250000194
Google: y3Tb3UreLK0C
Amazon: 125000019X
Publisher: Pan Macmillan
Published: 2010-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

Karen’s house is on one of Brighton’s many hilly residential streets. On either side of the road, late Victorian terraces stagger up the gradient, tired-looking in the orange glow of street lamps. At the top is a pair of 1930s semi-detached houses. From the outside, they are not especially attractive, but Lou supposes they offer more space for the money because of it, and she knows Karen has children. There is a built-in garage at the front, so Lou has to go round the side to locate the main door. She locks her bike to a drainpipe and rings on the doorbell. Its ‘ding-dong’ reminds her of the ‘Avon calling’ ads from her childhood.

She hears voices inside and has a moment of trepidation. Lou has arranged to meet Anna here as she has been getting behind with writing up her session notes from the school, and doesn’t want to let her paperwork slip another week. She has such a full weekend planned that this evening after work was her only opportunity. It also seemed sensitive to allow Karen and Anna an hour or so alone before she arrived, rather than intruding on the children’s bedtime.

But now the encounter is upon her, Lou is anxious about exactly what’s expected of her, how she – if anyone – is going to help. It makes little difference that she’s a counsellor; she’s still unsure of how to speak to the bereaved, especially a woman who has lost someone so very dear so terribly recently.

Footsteps come towards her down the hall, the door opens. It’s Karen. She is dressed more casually than she was on the train that Monday morning, in faded jeans and a floaty top – but Lou recognizes her immediately. Her face seems different this evening, though: the appalled, frightened panic has diminished; instead her features are a picture of sadness. It is the same transformation that Lou noted in Anna the morning before, but a dozen times more marked.

‘Hello.’ Karen’s voice is soft, gentle. ‘You must be Lou.’

‘And you’re Karen.’

‘Yes.’

‘I wish we were meeting in happier circumstances.’

Karen gives a rueful laugh. ‘Me too. But come in, come in.’

Lou steps over the threshold into a square hallway. Obviously it’s a family home: there are pictures of the children in frames on the cream-painted walls; the coat rack is crammed with diminutive duffel coats, anoraks and scarves; on the parquet floor are several pairs of small boiled-sweet-coloured wellington boots and scuffed shoes, scattered higgledy-piggledy.

‘Ah, Lou, hi,’ says a familiar voice; it’s bolder, more confident, a contrast to Karen’s, and Anna comes through from the kitchen. Lou is relieved to see she has a glass in her hand.

Anna seems to pick up on the unspoken request. ‘Would you like some wine?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘I’ll get you some.’ Clearly Anna is at home here. Lou wonders exactly how long she and Karen have known each other, where precisely they met.

‘Dump your bag and come through,’ says Karen.

Lou does as she is told, hangs up her parka and follows them both into the kitchen.

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