Richard Coleman

She came to see me in my study as I was going through papers. I stopped writing. “What is it, Maude?”

She took a deep breath—she was clearly very nervous. “Mummy said to me once that she wanted to be cremated and her ashes scattered.”

I looked down at my hands. There was a spot of ink on the cuff of my shirt. “Your mother said a great many things that have not come to pass. She once said she wanted four children. Do you see any sisters or brothers about? Sometimes what we think and what we do are not meant to be the same.”

“But—”

“That’s enough, Maude—there is nothing more to be said on the matter.”

Maude shuddered. I’d spoken more sharply than I’d intended. These days I find it difficult to control my tone.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she whispered. “I was only thinking of Mummy. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You haven’t upset me!” I pressed my pen so hard into the paper that the nib suddenly cracked. “Damn!” I threw down the pen.

Maude slipped out without another word.

The sooner this week is over the better.