It’s been an hour and instead of enjoying our secret kisses, with my hand up your skirt, there’s been a stony silence.‘Fay, please, tell me what...��s made you this way and we can sort it out.’You glare at me and stride to your bedroom.‘Damn!’ I tip toe down the stairs and peer around the door into the lounge. As usual, at this time of the day, Mom’s watching her favourite soap.A minute later, I storm into your bedroom. ‘Right, we have maybe half an hour before Dad’s home, so we need to sort this. She generally worked in watercolours, or in pencil and crayon when black and white pictures were needed. She loved painting in oils, but she only did so in her spare time, as it was expensive and more difficult to sell. She was too modest to go in for the big exhibitions some of her colleagues seemed to enjoy. Moreover, being told what she had meant in her paintings always came as a shock to her – it felt like an intrusion, somehow. The big advantage was that she didn’t have to guard her time. More

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