‘Wouldn’t you just know!’ Daisy could have been sitting there, for all she knew. Kathleen kept noddling through those last days before Ronald died, the horrible secret of his illness huddled within, unable to turn to the children, lost between voyages in her own port. She drank the last of her coffee angrily, one-swig Kath, and shook her head to free it from all that unhappy stuff. There was a busker under the shopfront just nearby, strumming guitar and singing mournfully about the inland. Can’t sing like my boy, she thought. Not a patch on him. Just briefly she wondered what Brain would think if he knew she’d come back. But she didn’t want him to know, didn’t want to push herself in where she wasn’t wanted. Anyway, she couldn’t find him even if. He was somewhere around, up in the hills. The busker was packing up his guitar and moving off now. She felt sorry for him. ‘No talent,’ she muttered to herself, ‘poor kid.’ He was moving across to the people at the next table, his cap held ready, hoping for a handout.
