Rose’s mother was called Carol and she spent most of her day in a large airy office at the top of the house, guarded from her family by a stained glass door decorated with bright flowers. Sometimes the family would take it in turns to guess her movements inside . Everything within seemed blurred and misshapes teased watchers. Was she working? Was she writing ? Or most serious of all, was she waiting for ‘it’ to arrive?
She was like a lock gate. Carol refused conversations. They were floodgates to failure. Three times a day, she would allow her mouth to open and a small, deliberate trickle of verbs would escape outside her, in the direction of another human being. All her other words: adjectives, even excalmations, she kept sealed in behind the gate. Building up pressure. Waiting to be opened once a day, at the special time, when her daughter returned home.