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might see O’Neils horses stride out from the headlands to the shallows, just as they would when she was a child. Sometimes she would stop what she was doing in the shop just to watch the cargo ships pass on their way to Greenore harbour.
    In recent months she had begun to gaze out at the black rock in the bay; as a child she had played in its grassy loft. She would momentarily catch sight of sea creatures and sirens, formed, she concluded, from the sun-reflected foam and driftwood that would gather by the rock. At times it seemed to Patricia that only this sea understood how disorganised and fractured she felt. This sea, George Herbert – and now, perhaps, the blonde-haired girl.
    â€˜How much is this?’ asked the girl, returning to the Japanese screen.
    â€˜It’s not for sale.’
    â€˜Oh. I thought…’
    â€˜It’s an accessory. For the shop. To divide the pieces.’
    â€˜It’s very pretty. Was it part of your collection?’
    â€˜Yes. A gift. I’m grateful they missed it.’ The girl returned the screen to the podium.
    The sight of the screen recalled to Patricia her recent trip to Earls Court. She had broken briefly from buying to visit the church where she and Gordon had married. At the end of the lane-way, by the black railings of the cemetery, she had stopped, surprised by the sound of water. She had turned in to the courtyard and found a fountain humming its soothing water-music for the dead. Once, in place of the fountain, there had been a large diseased cherry blossom with a seat inset for pilgrims, mourners and escapees from the relentlessness of Kensington High Street. She had been relieved to find that Reverend Kent had had the sense to replace it. A beautiful touch, she had thought, passing her fingers through the water as it trickled down a miniature staircase onto bonsai shrubbery. She had tiptoed to the door, peered into the Reverend’s kitchen; the peachy evening light spilled onto the blue terrazzo floor tiles. It had all changed inside too. The windows had new yellow curtains. Her heart sank as she thought Reverend Kent might have married. It was he who had encouraged her to make the break, to stand up to Gordon. All the times she had sat with him under the cherry tree. She had wanted to thank him for his kindness and advice (he had told her ‘drive – don’t drift’ and it had made all the difference). Irresolutely, she took a step forward. The brass plate on the wall read: Reverend Craig. Please do not ring after 8pm . In that moment she felt desolate. She had wanted to retch. She’d had such a run of bad luck: a strained and difficult divorce, the robbery, now the only person in the world in whom she might confide had disappeared without telling her. She said a prayer for the shop in the church then toiled back to the hotel in the rain. Surely Reverend Kent would find her if he wanted to.
    The door of the shop flew open, the bell reverberating loudly. A tall, shorthaired girl of about seventeen stormed in wearing headphones and a backpack bulging with brushes, pallet, a folded-up easel and a rolled-up canvas with frayed edges. She grunted something at Patricia, waded through the shop till she got to the end of the room curtained off to a small kitchen, then snapped the drape closed behind her.
    â€˜Natalie, my daughter. Home from an exhibition,’ Patricia said to the blonde-haired girl, who seemed bemused by the whirlwind entrance. Natalie quickly re-emerged, minus impedimenta, and loped towards the till. Patricia kissed her daughter on the cheek.
    â€˜How was the exhibition?’ the blonde girl asked, passing her hand through the bristles of a coral-backed hairbrush.
    â€˜Great,’ Natalie replied. Patricia noticed her daughter leering at the stranger who seemed so casually authoritative in their shop.
    â€˜I told this lady about the robbery,’ Patricia said.
    â€˜Whose work did you see?’ the