Free Sewing the Shadows Together by Alison Baillie Page A

with a small inclination of his head. Tom stood next to him with his casket of ashes.
    When the priest started his address in a clear sonorous voice Tom was astonished by how much he knew about his mother. From information given by Mary Agnes, he’d captured her quiet character, her unassuming manner, her dedication to helping others, as a nurse, a mother and a friend. The sadness of her last years, the loss of her daughter and husband, being so far away from friends and family in South Africa, were referred to briefly, but then much was made of her ashes returning to the place of her birth.
    The priest blessed the casket and Tom scattered the first handful of ashes into the sand. Silently his mother’s cousins stepped forward to take part of her and share in her homecoming. The tableau of dark figures was silhouetted on the evening sky as the sun melted huge and glowing into the sea, leaving the sky ablaze with lilac, dusty pink, red and golden yellow.
    *
    The next day Tom woke in his narrow bed, his head throbbing. It had been a fine night back at the house and all his new-found relatives had taken him into their arms and their hearts. It was tempting to stay here in the warmth of family, but he knew he had to go – and quickly. The longer he stayed here, the more he began to feel a sense of belonging that he could never remember feeling before. He packed his things into his bag and went down to where Mary Agnes was standing in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. He ate quickly and threw his bags into the boot of the car.
    Mary Agnes held him close and he could sense rather than see tears in her eyes. ‘Haste ye back’, she whispered.
    ‘I’ll come again, Mary Agnes.’ As he said it, he hoped that it was true.

Chapter 8

    Sarah paced around her front room, a duster in her hand, wiping the furniture in a random fashion. As she turned to the coffee table, she saw the manila folder with HJ Kidd’s material. Rory was never around much, but he was at home even less than usual at the moment. He seemed obsessed with the Kidd programme, poring over the material the poet had given him. He was especially delighted with the handwritten comic ‘The Blue Moon’ (
because that’s how often it appears)
which HJ had written with his older sister Antonia. Sarah picked it out of the folder. Between crayoned adverts and family news items was a poem called
Tibby the Cat
.
    Tibby tiptoes across the carpet
    White socks on each paw
    Whiskers like wires
    Eyes like marbles
    I love you Tibby
    Come and sit on my knee.
    By Horatio J. Kidd
    Sarah smiled. So his name was Horatio. Now she knew why he was always known as HJ.
    There was a yellow post-it note attached to the comic. On it Rory had written in his surprisingly beautiful handwriting
First of the animal poems? A link to the metaphorical language of later works?
    ‘Have you got that folder from HJ?’
    Sarah started at the sound of Rory’s voice. She hadn’t heard him come in. She looked up and saw Rory standing in front of her.
    ‘Yes, I’ve been looking at ‘The Blue Moon’. That’s a lovely starting point for the programme.’
    ‘That’s what I thought.’ He sat down on the arm of the sofa. ‘I’m so glad to get out of the studio. My guests tomorrow are that body-waxed apology for a footballer, Greg Muldoon and his anorexic WAG. He’s
written,
’ he signified quotation marks, ‘an autobiography and I’m supposed to promote his book – oh sorry, question him about his fascinating life. I’ve got that dim new researcher girl to read the drivel and write up a few questions. All he’s famous for is dating a few talentless models or members of girl bands. Oh yes, and his exciting collection of tattoos.’
    Sarah smiled. She liked it when Rory had his rants, as he called them. She was pleased if he could use her as a safety valve when pressures at work built up.
    ‘These modern day so-called sportsmen are just not like the real footballers we used to have – like Donald