Marla smells of digestive biscuits.
The bright light outside has faded to salmon.
What happened to Toffee? I ask.
Marla’s breathing is heavy.
Maybe she’s asleep.
Part of me hopes she is so that my question
can get lost in the evening.
Toffee? You don’t sound a bit like yourself.
Are you coming down with something?
If you’re well enough later will we go for a picnic?
We can take some jam sandwiches and crisps.
Is it warm enough for picnics?
We can wear our coats.
She has a ladder in the foot of her tights.
Her toes caress the carpet.
Was she happy in the end? I ask.
Happily ever after?
Yes.
Exactly.
Can I have one of those?
Can Toffee be the kind of girl
who got the good stuff,
who didn’t spend her whole life wishing.
Marla puts her hand on my knee.
Toffee was always braver than I was.
I mean, I pretended to be brave.
I talked a load of old bollocks and wore bright colours.
I flirted with boys much older
and I did things that made Daddy’s hair curl.
Toffee didn’t.
No. She was dead serious.
She wore brown even in the summer.
Sensible. You know what I mean?
And then she left. I stayed.
But she left. Not just for England,
wasn’t a soul in the street who didn’t go to England.
She ran away? I ask.
No. Marla sits up.
She left after Oliver died.
She took a boat and a suitcase to Brooklyn.
Did she survive the trip?
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
She never wrote from where she went.
She should have written at least.
Why didn’t you write?
A stamp wouldn’t have broken the bank.
She turns to me and I’m forced to see she is crying.
But you came back. Didn’t you?
Everything works out in the end.
You’re OK.
I’m OK.
The tears are on her chin.
She wipes them away with the back of her fingers.
I have to leave, don’t I?
Yes, I say. But it will all be OK.
I think it really might be OK.