Chosen by Lesley Glaister

‘Jake, I mean!’ She stands up. ‘Rest now.’
    Dodie puts her finger on Jake’s face. The tip of it obscures his whole head. What is he doing now?
Wink and Blink and a Nod one night
, it’s a lullaby; maybe Aunt Regina sang it to her once, certainly not Stella, and she’ll sing it to Jake if she can think of the words,
sailed out on wooden shoe, into a river of crystal light and into a sea of blue,
funny how it floats back, flows, when it’s been dammed up for so long,
where are you going la la la la an old man asks the three . . .
    Dodie blinks. Her mouth is full of fur, her phone is by her feet, a lamp shines in a flowery corner.
    â€˜Better?’ a voice says. ‘Dinner won’t be long.’
    It’s evening; she looks at her watch. A couple of hours have vanished.
    â€˜All OK,’ Martha soothes. ‘No rush. You take your time.’
    Dodie scrubs at her eyes. ‘I have to talk to Rod.’
    â€˜On the table.’ Dodie turns to see the phone there. The tea things have been cleared and there are knives and forks set out; all that and she didn’t hear a thing. Martha goes to the little stove; there’s the clank of a spoon in a pan, a deliciously spicy savoury smell.
    â€˜I’ve just got to fetch some bread – if you want bread?’
    â€˜Please.’
    She waits for Martha to leave and dials the home number, remembering the UK code. The phone rings. She pictures it on top of the fridge, pictures her kitchen with Stella’s rosewood table crammed in so you can barely squeeze round it to get to the fridge – and already marked by a hot-cup ring. Stella would spin in her grave, if she were in a grave. Ashes. They’ve yet to scatter them. They’re in the airing cupboard, safe under all the towels and sheets. Wait till Seth’s back. Make a trip of it, a picnic, oh, shut up. The phone rings.
    â€˜It’s me!’ Dodie says, when she hears Rod’s voice.
    â€˜Good timing, we’ve just got in.’
    â€˜Where’ve you been?’
    â€˜Out. So, where are you?’
    â€˜At the church, sort of, only it’s not like a church, in what they call the parlour.’ She lowers her voice. ‘A sort of psychotically twee apartment for visitors.’
    Rod grunts.
    â€˜Like your mum on acid,’ she tries, hoping to amuse him, but there’s a beat of silence.
    â€˜So,’ he says. ‘Seth?’
    â€˜Haven’t seen him yet. Tomorrow.’
    â€˜Oh?’
    â€˜Jake?’
    â€˜He’s right here. Still in his buggy. Jake, want to speak to Mummy? Say hello to Mummy.’
    She feels in her belly the swoop of the phone down to Jake’s ear. ‘Jakey?’
    She hears his breath. Shuts her eyes. Sees his puzzled face.
    â€˜Say hello to Mummy,’ Rod says.
    â€˜Hello, Jake,’ Dodie says.
    But he starts to cry. Rod comes on. ‘That’s foxed him,’ he says, through the wails.
    â€˜Give him some juice and a fig roll,’ Dodie says.
    â€˜It’s lunchtime.’
    â€˜Give him banana on toast –’
    â€˜I know what to give him, thank you.’
    â€˜Sorry.’ Her voice thins. ‘Wish I was there.’
    â€˜I’d better sort him out.’
    â€˜I shouldn’t have come.’
    â€˜Don’t be daft; he’s fine. Ring when you’ve seen Seth. OK?’
    â€˜OK.’
    â€˜Bye.’
    And he’s gone. She drops the phone and bunches over, arms wrapped round herself, round the twingeing of a phantom umbilicus. Thousands of miles away, Jake is crying for her and there’s nothing she can do.
    â€˜All right?’ Martha comes back in, a long crusty loaf under her arm. She inspects the pan. ‘This is done.’
    â€˜Smells good.’
    â€˜Red pepper goulash,’ Martha says. ‘Wine?’
    â€˜Please.’
    â€˜Californian.’ She pours two generous glasses of red. ‘Cheers.’ She raises