Dying Fall

is a blank. Almost as if he is the semi-mystical figure he pretends to be.
    ‘All kinds of families work, don’t they?’ she says now, very much wanting to believe it. ‘Not just the traditional kind.’
    ‘They sure do,’ says Cathbad. ‘Look at us. Mother, child and passing warlock, having a whale of a time. Why don’t we go into Blackpool this afternoon?’
    *
    Nelson’s mother, like Cathbad’s before her, is at Mass. She always enjoys sung Mass on a Sunday although her enjoyment is usually expressed in running criticism of the choir, the flowers and, most of all, the priest. Father David, a nervous and sincere young man, is a convert and so, to Maureen, deeply suspect. ‘Not a cradle Catholic,’ she told Michelle in a piercing whisper before the service started. ‘Not really one of us.’ In Maureen’s mind Father David compares very badly to his predecessor Father Damian, of whom Maureen always talks as if he’s gone to his blessed reward. He is, in fact, drying out in a clinic in Ireland.
    Today, though, Maureen’s enjoyment is marred, not only by Father David’s suspiciously Protestant sermon, but by the fact that she doesn’t have her son at her side. It’s a rare treat for her, showing off her son and his decorative wife to her fellow worshippers. But today Nelson has refused to play ball. He has a complicated relationship with his baptismal faith. On one hand he has an almost fearful dread that it’s all true, on the other he loathes the whole flower-arranging, Cafod-collecting apparatus of his mother’s church. His refusal to attend had quickly escalated into a row, ending with Maureen storming off with Michelle in tow, warning Nelson that he would soon burn in hell. ‘I’ll see you there,’ Nelson had growled.
    Harry has been strange this holiday, thinks Maureen as she bows her head piously at the elevation of the Host. Every homecoming is always marked by a series of pyrotechnic rows. Maureen quite looks forward to them, to be honest. Harry has always been short-tempered but his mother and sisters are more than a match for him. This time, though, he seems different. Quieter, sadder. A couple of times Maureen has caught him on his own, staring out of the window. Even as a child Harry was never one for sitting and staring; he always liked to be doing things, playing football, going out on his bike with his friends, driving his mother demented. Of course he has been sick. Maureen remembers that awful journey to Norfolk last November, how she had prayed all the way for Harry to survive that terrifying mystery illness, thebargains she had made with God, cheerfully offering to die in his place. She had meant it too. In fact, when Harry had miraculously pulled through, she had half expected to be taken up to heaven on the spot. And does he seem grateful for this devotion? No. He skulks around with a face like thunder, disappearing off to see his old police friends, refusing to accompany his mother to Holy Mass. He doesn’t deserve to have such a mother and such a wife. He really doesn’t.
    Now Maureen prays angrily for her favourite child. Please, God, let him see the error of his arrogant ways. Keep him safe, Lord, and let him realise his many blessings. At the sign of peace she holds Michelle’s hand tightly. Though she doesn’t know why, she suddenly feels very protective towards her daughter-in-law.
    ‘Peace be with you, my darling,’ she says huskily.
    ‘Thank you,’ says Michelle, who can never remember what she’s meant to say in return.
    *
    The beach is beautiful. The tide is out and the sand stretches for miles beyond the piers, the sea only a blue haze in the distance. Kate falls in love with the donkeys and clamours to go on one. This is a relief as, when they parked the car, she had seen a poster with Dora the Explorer on it and has been demanding Dora every since. The poster is advertising the Pleasure Beach, where there is apparently something called ‘Nickelodeon World’ starring giant cartoon characters, as well as a selection of truly terrifying rides. The biggest of these, a roller-coastercalled the Big One, dominates the Blackpool skyline. It is higher than the seagulls, a nightmare railway track in the sky, swooping downwards in an almost vertical death plunge. Never, Ruth vows, never will I go on that thing. Cathbad thinks it looks great.
    But the donkeys are lovely. Kate’s is called Jolly Roger. Ruth pats him, marvelling at his soft coat – more like