Lucy stepped out into the cool night air and made her way to her flat in Acre Lane, trying yet again to move around the various bits of history which put together properly might give a coherent explanation for her family’s broken ways. There was the war; the camps; a swift marriage; and the mystery that was Agnes. How did they all fit together? Was there something else? God alone knew.
Lucy’s persisting regret was that things could so easily have been different for everyone: Agnes needn’t have been lost to those around her; Grandpa Arthur needn’t have sacrificed himself so much; Freddie needn’t have felt rejected; Susan needn’t have been run down by someone else’s past; and Lucy could have had a childhood, at least for a while. They had all, to a greater or lesser extent, been unnecessarily damaged. Looking at the workings of the world and all therein, it seemed to Lucy that everything had been put together quite nicely at some point in the past, only now it didn’t work very well. And no one knew why But now that her gran was dying, explanations were of no consequence. If there was one, only Agnes knew it, and maybe it was better she take it with her.
When she got to her flat, Lucy switched on the television and drew the curtains, shutting out the night. On impulse she rang her grandmother, just as the news was about to begin.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course I am. Don’t worry’
‘Are you frightened?’ It was a personal question, the sort she’d never asked before.
The answer came smoothly: ‘No. There’s not much more in this life to be scared about, is there?’
‘I suppose not. Goodnight, Gran.’
‘Goodnight, Lucy’
Lucy watched the news with interest. She thought the monk handled the silly question about complicity rather well.