A Question of Guilt by Janet Tanner

mingling with the heady perfume of the honeysuckle that grew like a weed over the front door. The smells were fainter now in early spring, but still easily detectable as they rose from the damp earth and the clots of mud left by the tractor and the array of boots abandoned in the porch. Somewhere in the darkness an owl hooted, a low, eerie call that pierced the night and floated on silent wings above the fields beyond the barn. For some reason it made me feel sad, though perhaps sad is not quite the right word. Nostalgic, maybe, brushing against half-forgotten memories and making me ache for a time when life had been sweet and simple.
    â€˜Is that you, Sally?’
    Mum’s voice from inside the house snapped me out of my reverie.
    â€˜Yes, I’m home,’ I called back, stepping inside and closing the door.
    Mum was in the kitchen doorway, a mug of hot chocolate cupped between her hands. She was in her dressing gown, ready for bed, and again the nostalgia nudged me. She’d had that dressing gown as long as I could remember – no-nonsense dark grey wool with a sash that tied around her middle so that she resembled a sack of potatoes. One Christmas Dad had bought her a crimson velvet one – I’d gone with him to help him choose it – but she’d hardly ever worn it. The grey wool was warmer, and ‘comfy’ she said – a bit like Mum, I thought.
    â€˜I didn’t expect you to still be up,’ I said.
    â€˜I thought I’d wait until you got in.’ Mum headed back to the kitchen and I followed her. ‘Do you want a hot drink? Cocoa? Ovaltine?’
    I couldn’t face the thought of anything milky on top of pizza and wine.
    â€˜Maybe a cup of tea. It’s OK – I can make it.’
    â€˜No, you sit down. You don’t want to overdo things.’
    â€˜I’m not.’ But Mum was already bustling to fill the kettle and I gave in with a sigh. Actually I did feel pretty tired now and my leg was aching quite badly.
    â€˜Did you have a good time?’ Mum asked, popping a tea bag into a mug.
    â€˜Yes. It’s a nice place, that trattoria. Rachel had a bit of a disaster, though. She managed to bash the wing mirror on the car, and she’s worried to death about telling Steve.’
    â€˜Oh dear, poor Rachel. She’s not much of a driver, is she? Didn’t she lose her bumper not so long ago?’
    â€˜In the supermarket car park, yes. She went up over the kerb and got it stuck. She is a bit accident prone. But at least she hasn’t killed anybody.’
    The kettle was boiling; Mum made my tea and put it on a leather coaster on the table in front of me.
    â€˜Here you are.’
    â€˜Thanks, Mum.’
    â€˜Now – the reason I stayed up.’ Mum sat down opposite me. ‘Tim phoned.’
    My heart should have leapt with pleasure. Instead it sank.
    â€˜Ah. And I wasn’t here. I don’t suppose he was very pleased about that.’
    â€˜He did sound a bit short,’ Mum conceded. ‘But then he always does. Either that, or patronizing. I don’t think I’m quite good enough for him.’
    â€˜Oh Mum! I never heard such rubbish!’
    â€˜Hmm . . . I’m not so sure,’ Mum said archly. ‘He does like the high life and all that goes with it . . .’ She smiled at her unintentional pun. ‘Oh, you know what I mean, Sally.’
    I said nothing. I did know what she meant. Sometimes I thought it was the glamour of his job that Tim liked more than the actual flying – he often complained about the tedium of computerized flights, but he wouldn’t give up the perks of being a captain of a scheduled flight to go back to flying the mail or tutoring pupils at a flying school. The gold braid on his shoulders and the admiration of the passengers meant too much to him. And perhaps he had developed an exaggerated opinion of his own importance that made him look down on the simple life