By the end of March, the paper chains had gone, Poppy had outgrown another pair of shoes and Tom’s travel arrangement had survived its first review only after changes neither of us particularly enjoyed.
He travelled less often than originally proposed, stayed away on agreed nights and arranged the school commitments around them. One missed train had produced an argument and an expensive backup plan. We discussed it afterwards without treating my anger as proof the whole arrangement had failed.
There were still times he asked where something was before looking. There were also mornings he completed the school run, a dentist visit and the shopping without sending me a report of the invisible labour he’d discovered.
I trusted the repetition more than the apology.
My reading programme had acquired regular families and a waiting list for one session. Marianne asked me to help plan the next term. I said yes after checking the hours, not after calculating whether my ambition would inconvenience everybody else too much.
Beth had moved into a longer-term place she chose herself. I knew the address because she invited me, not because I belonged to a group with an application folder.
Her work was uneven in the ordinary way of a developing business. One quotation was accepted; another wasn’t. The spring event went ahead on a smaller budget than hoped, and she adjusted the scope instead of paying for the client’s wishes out of her own exhaustion.
She finished repaying the private advance according to the agreed schedule, having declined reimbursement from the fund. Priya sent her the final balance: zero. I confirmed receipt of the last instalment too.
The fund’s recovery was less tidy. Some money had been returned through the arrangements being pursued, but much remained outstanding. Advice and procedures took time. Nobody promised that a conviction, if one came, would instantly fill the account.
Ellen’s work and the revised oversight had made the numbers clearer, not painless.
Helen remained outside the group. Her shop was busy around Mother’s Day, and I bought flowers there without turning the transaction into a conversation about whether she had forgiven Vivienne.
George had completed the walk with his daughter. He sent a photograph of them beside a signpost, both looking slightly damp and pleased. The birthday book appeared in his coat pocket. It had finally travelled somewhere its author intended.
Vivienne spent more time away with Peter. She still helped people, but I noticed her asking what was wanted before producing a plan. Sometimes she got it wrong. Sometimes she stopped herself halfway through and began again.
Her questions about the notebook had not vanished simply because spring arrived. She dealt with them through the advice and process available to her. I didn’t ask her to give me every detail to prove she was taking responsibility.
Celia remained absent from the street. Official updates reached us when there was something appropriate to communicate. The murder allegation was contested. The financial offending had its own course through the proceedings. We did not rehearse future answers together or build our own version of the case while waiting.
At times, waiting felt like a second occupation. A phone call could pull October into the middle of an ordinary afternoon. I learnt to ask what action was required, write it down and return to what I had been doing when I could.
One Saturday, Beth and I took Poppy to a small craft fair. Beth bought a print for her new wall. Poppy chose a wooden bird and spent ten minutes deciding whether its expression was friendly.
“It can just be a bird,” Beth told her.
Poppy considered that and bought it.
We ate lunch on a bench in weak sunshine. Beth talked about a client who wanted an impossible delivery date, and I talked about the reading programme. We mentioned the case once, when she confirmed an update I had also received, then left it alone.
On the way home, she stopped outside a shop window.
“I forgot about it for nearly an hour,” she said.
“Good.”
“It felt disloyal when I remembered.”
I knew exactly what she meant.
We stood there until the feeling passed enough to keep walking. Neither of us promised that one day remembering would become simple.
At home, Tom and Poppy put the wooden bird on a shelf.
There was still room beside it for something we hadn’t chosen yet.