DIY

She hums softly as she dusts. You are my sunshine – Mother always loathed that song. Or did Mother just loathe her humming it? She shifts the silver-framed slice of Bali beach, a relic from Karen’s wedding, fractionally to the left. Her eyes gloss over her photo-self, clammy in her finery, holding her wilted posy. Always the bridesmaid, Mother had said acidly.
The pewter trinket box gets nudged forwards. It holds a lock of curled wheaten hair, shorn from Margot’s first born. Mother had cooed frigidly over the baby, then delivered her shot. Shame you’ll never have any. What man would want to impregnate a frump like you?
She moves the charcoal sketch of her cat, Harry, from the mantelpiece, and props it against a bland lidded urn. Look, Harry, she says as he twines round her calves. Now Mother’s on the shelf, too.