His mother isn’t in when he arrives at Falcon with the supply boxes. Neither is the dog, so they’ve probably gone out for another walk. To the pub he assumes. Without Beatrice’s jarring presence, the kitchen is once more a peaceful oasis of pale blue walls and golden light. The view from the window promises a relaxing excursion on the water later, the double glazing filtering out the more homicidal shrieks of the gulls.
He opens the lid on the first of the supply boxes. His mother has packed sloppily. Two pashminas lie in a crumpled heap on top of her torch and walking boots. He removes items which belong downstairs and takes the rest up to his mother’s bedroom. She has yet to unpack most of the luggage she’s brought with her. Why does she need so many clothes?
The second box is much heavier. He guesses right – this is the one that contains the rest of her outdoor gear. He opens it, removing her wellingtons and a second, sturdier pair of walking 362boots, putting them under the coat rack.
He takes out her bright yellow sou’wester and a large bobble hat, a water bottle, small rucksack – then he sees it, right at the bottom – his mother’s pink waterproof.
Icy fingers of dread creep across his scalp.