Half Broken Things by Morag Joss

she would rest in the drawing room wearing the soft felt slippers while her wet shoes, stuffed with newspaper, dried by the Aga. It was a privilege to own such good shoes and so it was a pleasure, as well as a responsibility, to look after them properly.
    It was a further quarter of a mile along the road to the bus shelter, where Jean stood and waited. As the rain began again, she thought a little sadly of the keys, quite definitely car keys, that had been among the others in the teapot. There were at least three cars behind the high doors of the stone garages behind the courtyard, but she could not drive. But almost certainly her son would, and as she climbed onto the bus and paid her fare to the driver she felt a slight, secret superiority over the other people on board. They looked resigned to travelling this way, but this would be the last time she would ever have to wait in the rain for a bus that was running late.
    In Bath, she bought stamps, writing paper and a copy of
The Lady
at W H Smiths and asked for directions to the post office. Across the road from it stood one of those new coffee places with sofas, the sort of place she had never been in before, where they sold fourteen things with Italian names and where, she found, she had to ask carefully to get just a cup of coffee. The smell of the place was better than the coffee actually tasted, but Jean was already tired and grateful for the rest, and she needed somewhere quiet to do the next part. The places around her were filling up, so she shrugged her arms out of the olive coat and let it fall around her like a peel, lining side out. Then she spread her pink cashmere sleeves, as if she were resting heavy wings, across the low table. She set out her paper, envelopes and chequebook, establishing more territory, turned to the back of
The Lady
and began to read. When she had learned what she had to do, she printed on a sheet of paper:
    WERE YOU BORN 1955 AND ADOPTED? Lady in country house seeks contact with her brown-eyed baby boy given (out of necessity but reluctantly) to adoptive parents, south of England, aged 3 weeks. All papers since lost. Mother longs to trace. Replies to Box No. only, treated in strictest confidence.
    By the time she had printed out another copy to keep, filled in the form, calculated the cost, written out her cheque, and sealed everything in the envelope and addressed it, she was shaking slightly, and her coffee was cold. She wondered about ordering more but she had already spent half of her week’s money on the advertisement and the stationery, and she was worried that if she delayed even to drink a cup of coffee she might be overtaken by objections (although from where she was not sure) to what she was doing. Her courage was fluttering and growing restive, like something trapped and uncomfortable. Her heart started to bang inside her chest, and in her throat. People were looking at her. Oh God, could they hear it? Did it show on her face, how terrified she was? She had to get home. She tried again to stop shaking and could not.
    â€˜Excuse me, are you all right?’
    So it did show. She had to get home. Now she was certain that all the people here, drinking from foaming cups and talking about their shopping, indeed every one of the thousands of people walking in Bath this morning, would stop her if they could. They would form a mob, a huge furious mob, and stop her. Already this woman at the next table was ignoring what her friend was saying and looking at Jean with what she wanted her to think was concern, but was really suspicion.
    â€˜I’m fine. I just need to get home. It’s rather warm in here. Thank you.’ Jean shrugged herself back into her coat, recovered enough now to see the woman noticing how good and expensive it was. With the woman’s eyes still upon her, she crossed the road to the post office and posted the envelope. She stood by the post box until she felt calm again.
    Briskly she crossed back and