She sat on the edge of her bed, shivering slightly in the chill air before dawn. It was still pitch dark. A tiny yellow flame wobbled above the oil lamp on the table. She wasn’t at all sure that she wanted to go now. She’d wanted Gabbin to see her off, but Senior Mother said no, no one must know when she was going. Now she was having difficulty getting her shoe on – either her foot had grown since her accident or it had just spread from walking barefoot. Mother helped her, speaking in whispers. A torch flashed in the doorway. Yola couldn’t see who carried it, but recognised Senior Mother by her breathing, a strong inward breath followed by a gentle exhalation; you could tell a lot from Senior Mother’s breathing. She played her torch over Yola, who was standing now, self-consciously, in a borrowed dress that Mother had let down so that it covered her stump. Senior Mother’s hand appeared in the beam of the torch, holding an envelope; Mother took it. ‘She is to get nothing that is not necessary, tell that to Mr Eriksen.
