Dough between McLoughlin’s fingers, around the nails, sticking to his palms. He dumped the dough on to the floured board to be kneaded. Stretched, pulled out, then turned over, pressing down with the heel of the hand. Turn the dough clockwise. Pull, stretch, press, turn. Establish a rhythm. Feel the dough come together. Smooth and elastic. Then put it into a greased tin. Cover it with oiled clingfilm. Leave it. And wait. For the transformation to take place. For the yeast to work its magic. For the separate ingredients – flour, warm water, salt, sugar, yeast – to become one. The appointments were for Monday mornings at nine a.m. They were written in red capital letters, with a red box drawn around them. The first one was for 10 January 2005 and she had written them down, into the future, right up until 19 December. The pages of her diary were stiff with ink, every scrap of paper covered with names, dates, phone numbers, email addresses, doodles, jottings.
