The Scrapbook by Carly Holmes Page A

stands still and swivels round, with a graceful roll of her hips that’s almost a shimmy. The brambles swivel with her, lassoing her ankles. She doesn’t notice.
    â€˜This is where I first met your father. Right here, in this spot. He was driving past and saw me dancing under this tree. He said he had to stop and speak to me, see if I was as lovely up close as I looked from a distance. And I was, back then.’
    She starts to hum again and this time I can almost make out the tune. I wince at the sight of her torn legs and then shrug and lean back against a gravestone. There’s antiseptic lotion in the house. ‘I know you were, mum. I’ve seen the photos.’
    I don’t think she’s heard me. She stands with her back straight and her head up as though waiting for someone. I follow her gaze to the gate and half expect to see the ghost of a man walk through it and towards us. Towards her. Gathering pace as he gets nearer, intent on nothing but her, on discovering her. I squint into the sun’s afterglow and can almost see the urgent flicker of two shadows rushing to meet each other.
    â€˜When did he tell you that he was married?’ I suddenly ask.
    She jumps and frowns.
    I ask it again, with real need. I want to know, had she been as cynical as him from the very start, as thoughtlessly determined to pursue her own pleasures, regardless of the consequences to herself, to his other family, or to me.
    She sighs and wades back to me, for the first time noticing the state her legs are in. She lets out a yelp of horror at the dried smears of blood across her shins. I’ve punctured her mood and my punishment is that tight, closed look on her face. That resentful pout to her lips. But I’m determined not to drive her home, to her precious bottles, until she’s answered my question. She needs to give me something. I need to know.
    I tell her as much as I heave her out of the undergrowth and back onto the path. She pulls and hunches away, but then gives in and leans against me. Tired now, and eager to leave.
    I ask again. We stop beside the car and she shivers, but I don’t unlock it. ‘Well? When did he tell you?’
    She rubs her elbow as if it pains her and tugs at the door handle. Puts her free arm on the roof and rests her head on it. Her face is turned from me but I know that she’s furious. ‘Stop bullying me, Fern.’
    I clench my hand around the keys until they dig into my palm. I don’t look away. ‘When did he tell you?’
    She turns her head then and stares at me. There’s a nerve flickering below her eye.
    â€˜Not for a while. I didn’t even think … It was your bloody grandmother who guessed and told me to ask him. You can imagine how delighted she was. But we both decided to keep things as they were. He wouldn’t leave his wife and I wouldn’t leave him, so there didn’t seem to be much choice but to keep things as they were.’
    I poke the key roughly into the lock and turn it. Open the car door and hold it for her so that she can climb into the front seat. ‘There’s always choice, mum.’
    She huddles into her coat as I start the engine and angle the hot air fan in her direction.
    â€˜How nice it must be to be you, Fern. How nice to lead such a pale life.’
    I swing the car onto the road, past the heaped stone wall of the churchyard, and shudder when I see how centuries of sunlight striking the stones have bleached them of hue. They balance like infant’s skulls, one on top of the other.

A Bird’s Claw
    Feathers speckled grey and white and beige across the grass. Feathers stained gaudy scarlet at their tips. And a frail, snapped leg, just the one, amongst the feast remains.
    As you stooped to look I picked up the leg and lunged it, claw wagging on its broken stem, towards your face. It was just a joke, I was never going to touch you with it, but you made a disgusted noise and pushed