Lucy and her parents sat at a table playing Scrabble in the small courtyard garden of Chiswick Mall. Agnes, propped up, watched from her bed through the open French windows.
Susan glared at the row of letters on her stand. Lucy leaned back to sneak a look: Q, F, X, L, B… She turned away, gratified. Her mother was choking without vowels. The game produced in Lucy a ruthless competitive urge that permitted minor infractions of the rules. It was her father’s turn. He put the small tablets carefully on the board:
‘That’s not a word,’ said Susan petulantly
‘Is that a challenge?’ replied Freddie, his hand on the dictionary as if it were a gun.
‘No.’
Lucy studied her own predicament: Z, Q, K, 0, 5, 0, A. It was hopeless. ‘Would anyone like some tea?’
Her mother nodded fiercely.
Lucy passed through the French windows and sat by her grandmother’s side. She leaned forward and said, ‘What do you make of this lot?’ She recited her letters. Agnes thought for a moment while Lucy retrieved the alphabet card from the side of the bed. Agnes replied: