The Day Of Second Chances by Julie Cohen Page A

At her age. – can you imagine?’
    â€˜So, what you do then, is find a big, burly hunk of a carer who can look after her and carry her in his lovely muscular arms down the stairs and then push her in a wheelchair around the park every morning. Honor can have her fresh air, and a hot man to look at. Simples.’
    Jo laughed. ‘And where should we find this hunky male carer? Hunky Male Carers R Us?’
    â€˜There must be some somewhere. There are millions of little old ladies who would welcome a scheme like this. In fact, I’m tempted to break my leg myself.’
    â€˜The thing is, Honor is so independent. She’s always done everything for herself. I can’t see her being happy about being looked after by strangers.’
    â€˜Well, nobody’s a stranger once you’ve—’
    â€˜Mummy! Billy took my car!’
    â€˜There it goes,’ said Sara, getting up from her chair. ‘I’ll sort it.’
    While she squatted down between the boys and tried the delicate art of convincing preschoolers to share, Jo wiped down the table, rinsed out her mug, and put the kettle on again.
    The house in Stoke Newington, crowded with books and memories, was far too big for Honor on her own. In Jo’s mind, it was difficult to separate Honor from her house. They were both tall and thin, crammed with knowledge and obscure references to a religion Jo didn’t know much about; they shared a scent of paper and old wool. Whereas Jo didn’t think that this big airy house here in suburban Woodley reflected her at all. A house that reflected Jo would be crooked, full of cushions and textiles, pretty teacups and an antique dresser in the kitchen, painted floorboards and pastel walls. Roaring fireplace, worn leather sofas, windows of old glass that distorted the view outside and made it magical.
    This house was too new, a cube of brick with faux white pillars in the front. Inside, the angles were all perfect, the windows draught-proof. Richard had insisted on choosing most of the furniture, and though it was tasteful and comfortable, it was too modern. When they’d moved in, Jo had tried displaying her collection of flowery teacups on an open shelf in the kitchen, but they didn’t look right amongst all the stainless steel and granite. She’d put them back in their tissue wrappers, meaning to find another place for them, but then she’d had Oscar and she was too busy, and then Iris, and then it wasn’t wise to have teacups around when you had two toddlers. The cups were at the back of a cabinet, in a box.
    Jo had lived here for nearly four years, since Richard had bought the house and they’d married, and aside from the clutter, she’d left hardly any trace on it. She’d meant to paint the walls, hang pictures, but the walls were still their original white – aside from the little handprints, the flecks of flung Weetabix.
    Maybe that was what Jo was made of, after all: smeary fingerprints and old cereal.
    Stephen and she had been saving up for an old cottage where her teacups would have looked perfect. Where every object was precious and full of happy memories. But then Stephen had died, and that was the end of that dream.
    She reached for the biscuit tin to refresh the plate and saw movement outside the window. The hedge on the side facing the kitchen was low; Richard had planned to put up a fence to block the view of the cluster of chocolate-box faux Victorian brick houses built there after they’d moved in. He’d been furious when they’d started building. ‘Too many people,’ he’d said. ‘It crowds the schools, and puts more traffic on the roads.’ But what he’d meant was that the houses weren’t expensive enough. That they brought down the tone of the neighbourhood. Every time Richard had looked out of the kitchen window and seen the builders at work, he’d flushed with anger and ranted about the