June looked up at the imposing redbrick building across the street and thought, Why did I let Peter talk me into this? She hadn’t sold her cottage in Dorset and uprooted her life only to end up back at school! The whole thing was a dreadful mistake, not only the class but coming to London.
She’d moved to be near her son and to help out with the grandchildren, but she just felt in the way. Peter and his wife, Sylvie, were busy and stressed, often breaking off conversation as she came into the room. The children barely acknowledged her. Even the cat seemed cross that she’d usurped his favourite spot on the spare bed, hissing and scratching when she tried to cuddle him.
Her grandchildren were not the barefoot imps who’d once gleefully scampered over rocks with her, hunting crabs and sea anemones. Mia was hitting adolescence, while her little brother spent most of his time on his computer. Both of them seemed to prefer playing with their phones to talking to June.
Across the road a man in spectacles got off a bicycle.
‘It’ll be a great way to make friends, Mum,’ Peter had said as he handed June the enrolment slip – marked ‘nonrefundable’.
‘You will enjoy it!’ her daughter-in-law insisted.
Sylvie was a slim and chic Frenchwoman who’d told June off several times for treading dirt onto her expensive cream carpet. So much for helping out!
In the six long weeks since she’d arrived, June hadn’t been allowed to lift a finger. Whenever she tried to do something, even the washing-up, Sylvie would rush at her with, ‘Non! Non! Sit! Relax! Read a magazine! Go in the sunshine! Rest!’
June didn’t want to rest. She wanted to be busy, useful. But Sylvie treated her as if she were a child.
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