Why the Chaplain Chose Me

"It's hard to deny God in death," said the chaplain, as we stood around outside the service and waited for the parents to leave.

He said it quietly and only to me. I was at once both flattered and offended, pleased to be chosen for his aside, that he trusted my discretion and understanding, but upset he thought me safe, too witless to respond, to challenge the statement as another man might.

I half-smiled.

The parents appeared, went straight into the car and away.

The party began to break up. Some were leaving now, uncommitted, but their presence, I suspected, meant the most; others would remain, swollen and unable to speak. If you could talk, your grief was less. Perhaps that's why the chaplain chose me.

The Annexe

We played Ludo on the landing when we were little. There were other games - a big box full of stuff - snakes and ladders, a fancy old chess set - you had to look hard at the pieces to tell which was which - but the game that's really stuck with me was Ludo.

There were two floors in the annexe, now I think about it, with a couple of bedrooms (and maybe a bathroom) on each, which I don't think anyone ever used. Maybe a kitchen - I can't remember. But there was this big landing space where we used to play. I'm sure about that.

Mrs Holdsworth would take us back there after supper, every night from June right through to September, and we'd mess about for an hour or two before bedtime. She would sit on the box and watch us. I don't think she ever left us back there on our own.

Once she caught us running through, Molly and me chasing each other, cackling as we careered from unknown room to unknown room. She was sitting on one of the beds, looking out without expression at the door. When we burst in, she took us back to the landing and beat us.

I don't know where the door was exactly... Somewhere around here, between these beds to the left of the cupboard. There are no marks on the wall and it's so long ago that it's hard to know for sure. The memories are there, but I was young and can't trust them.

Maybe they bricked the annexe up and it's back here, intact and untouched.

But I can't help thinking that I might have made it up.

Caucus

There's been no hot water all morning. Tom shrieked when he stepped into the shower, called out like a little kid that it was cold. It wasn't very presidential.

I phoned down to reception. They told me that they knew, that they were sorry but that, even at five-thirty, I hadn't been the first person to complain and there wasn't too much they could do.

They'll be a man in this afternoon, they said. Too late for us. We'll be gone. Not to New Hampshire, but home. There's still work to do, of course: photos, handshakes, a speech to polish, I guess, though they could have had it written for weeks.

We've known since Saturday, officially, but most of the staff realised a couple of months ago I'm sure. Apart from Carlton, who maintains that 3% is "something to work with", they've all let it go. It's fine. I understand. But I feel for Tom. He won't have missed it.

I held him last night, when we got back to the room after meeting with Nat and Andy and the others. Before he could sit down and deny it, before there was any bravado, I held him in the doorway and we hugged.

He crumpled and told me he was sorry, again. He didn't have to. He said he was sorry fourteen years ago and that was enough for me, at least.

One more day then and we'll be away. One more day and I can get my husband home.