Saturday I’m relieved to find space in the car boot for our big shovel. It’s time we dug out the honeysuckle that grows against the wall at our beach house. Its fate was sealed last visit when I saw trails of ants eating something that oozed from a weed that was trying to strangle it. When did it last remember to flower? John will complain, of course. Our holiday home simply means more chores and more bills to him.
He never seems to stop and wonder at our good fortune to have inherited his uncle’s cabin by the sea. A haven for the whole extended family and everyone’s friends. Something I never take for granted.
Today, as we prepare to drive there, I don’t question the space in the boot. My mind’s elsewhere. It’s only when we arrive at our cabin that it comes back to haunt me. Why there’s space, that is.
There’s exactly the amount of space that should have been occupied by our black suitcase. The one still sitting on our bed at home,
