Oh, how we longed for summer.  For those days when we’d be able to set a table in the shade of the orchard and carry down salad bowls and tall jugs of iced tea. When mum would fill the big blue vase with freshly picked flowers from her cottage garden and place it on the hearth.  For evening walks through the poppy fields and the feel of the barley tickling our bare golden legs.

Every year we searched for the perfect summer dress.  It would be cotton of course.  One you could wear for that walk, or a garden party, a bit of shopping, or an al fresco evening meal.

This year was different.

Mum stayed in her bedroom.  When we were allowed in, she rose from the duvet like a swamp creature.  Hair hanging lank, eyes swollen from crying.  She wouldn’t eat.   The smell of alcohol was thick in the air.  The curtains drawn against the sunshine.

On the hearth, the flowers had shed their petals like spent confetti.  The lilac had dried and taken on the scent of death. They pumped her stomach twice.  Dad stood and cried at the foot of the hospital bed.  The next day he flew out to Australia.  Left her, left us.  For the other woman.

So, how could that be the same summer I found love?  It bloomed under the sweet honeysuckle by the back door.  Bodies pressed close together in a good night kiss.  During those last August days, in spite of everything, my heart soared and happiness gurgled up inside me like a fountain.  I was giddy as a kipper, seesawing between elation when I saw him, and despair when he didn’t ring.

“Help me get dressed.”  Mum hung to me like a small child.

I opened the wardrobe and there were two floral cotton dresses, still with their shopping tags.  We stared at them.

“I’ll never get to wear those now.” She sank back down on the bed.

I held her in my arms and we sobbed, knowing things would never be the same again.