Humpty's bones

11. Friday Morning: 8.20

Several things happened that Friday morning. At least ‘things’ that, to Eden, hinted at momentous events to come.

Firstly, Curtis left early for the studio. With grim satisfaction written large on his still-bruised face, he snarled, ‘I wish I could see Wayne’s ugly mug when the court papers are served on him. If he thinks he can take a swing at me, he can think again.’

Secondly, dark clouds swelled in the sky. Thunder grumbled on the horizon. An ominous threat of approaching storm.

Thirdly, Heather announced that continuing the dig today would be pointless because of the rotten weather forecast (frankly, the gazebo offered scant shelter when it came to torrential downpours). ‘Instead, you can help me shift some of the junk out of the attic. I should have done it after my mother died, but I didn’t fancy tackling it on my own. Now I’ve got you it’s time I rolled up my sleeves.’

Fourthly, Eden Page had a revelation. So now they’re treating me as a servant. I’m no longer the guest. I’m the live-in help. They expect me to obey their commands. In desperation she telephoned the builder again. No, he couldn’t start work on her apartment until the end of the month. No escape yet. Unless…

Eden telephoned her mother. Or at least she tried. Only after calling half a dozen of her mother’s acquaintances did Eden learn where Mum had gone. She had headed out to Dublin to stay with a friend. Mum being Mum there was no contact number of course; no address, no e-mail access. Eden’s mother feared that mobile phones, like permanent addresses, pension schemes and marriage, were all instruments of confinement. A free spirit, my old Mum. Bless her. Being unable to contact her mother brought Eden to item Five: ‘I’m alone,’ she murmured as she washed the breakfast dishes. ‘I really am alone.’

‘What was that, Eden?’ called her aunt from the living room where she sat and leafed through a magazine.

‘Nothing. I’m only singing to myself.’ Why did I say that? I should have told Heather that I’m sick of being treated like a serving maid. No, it’s more than that: I feel so alone here. I’ve not a single friend within thirty miles. And neither you nor your grouch of a husband really want me here. Homeless or not, she could see herself launching a verbal attack on both her aunt and uncle before the day was out. She’d tell them what a low opinion she had of the pair. Then whatever happened she’d catch the train back to the civilisation. ‘This place is driving me mad,’ she hissed as she pulled the sink plug. For a moment she imagined herself as a bird hovering high above Dog Star House. Roman road at one side. Flat, endless fields all around. Besieging the place. Jailed by circumstance rather than high walls. This isolation. It’s crushing…