She said this with such pride it sounded like a boast. For years I’d no idea what she meant, but I would nod in agreement as my mother was someone who didn’t like to be contradicted. Now I know what it means, I’m afraid I might have inherited that same nervous disposition. I wake up, nights, in such a sweat, fretting away. Nothing to do with the menopause – that was over long ago, thank the Lord. Sometimes I think I hear someone in the kitchen, though I know I’m imagining things, but I daren’t get out of bed and go and look. But mostly I wake with such a spinning head I can’t stop it. What is Gary up to? Is he trying to scare me? Is that his plan? And if so, why? What have I done to deserve such menace? He’s a lonely man, of course: not much to do. I don’t recall he had any friends. Not that he talked about himself much. Didn’t let on about whatever was going on in his mind – not that I asked. ‘There’s a fine line to be drawn between interest and prying,’ was another of my mother’s sayings.
