They asked her her name and said that was a lovely name when she told them. Violets were held out to her to smell. They said where they’d picked them. A dell they called the place, near the fingerpost. They could have picked an armful.
“We hoped we’d see you,” the taller woman said. “For you, my dear.”
Again the violets were held out, this time for Cecilia to take.
“We’re not meant to pick the flowers.”
Both smiled at once. “You didn’t pick them, you might explain. A gift.”
---from The Women by William Trevor
Daniel stands in the funnel, a narrow path between two high brick walls that join the playground to the estate proper.
He hasn’t talked to anyone today. I haven’t talked to anyone today.
Madeleine and I are waiting at the bus stop at the bottom of Beech Grove in our school uniforms: green print dresses, short white socks and sandals, blazers.
Growing up in the listless 1980s, Cecilia Normanton knew her father well, her mother not at all.
I was looking at the map when Stephen swerved, hit the rock, and occasioned the miscarriage.
For more than two hundred years, the Owens women have been blamed for everything that has gone wrong in town.
Welcome to the beautiful Sinclair family.
While I was still in Amsterdam, I dreamed about my mother for the first time in years.
For the heart, life is simple: it beats for as long as it can.
At dusk they pour from the sky.
The afternoon my parents died, I was out shoplifting with Irene Klauson.
The moment builds; it swells and builds—the moment when I realize we have lost.
Empty, vast, and cold were the halls of the Snow Queen.
‘Get out, you cunting, shitting, little fucking fucker!’ were the first words I ever heard.
We made our vow on a windy night in 1962, by the light of a full moon, three young women, with a priest as our companion.