Chapter One

Emmeline Darling suffered a twinge of discomfort in her right hip as she reached over to pull the heavy floral draperies across the paned windows in her sitting room.

“Beastly weather,” she grumbled. “This constant damp isn’t doing a thing for my rheumatism. Ha! I’d forgotten that. My mother used to say ‘rheumatism.’ Nowadays, it’s called arthritis, but I don’t think the word has the same panache. What do you think, Vera?”

Vera was snoring in the chair by the gas fire, and had no particular interest in this conversation.

“Still, it is February, so what can you expect? I must soldier on and go to class, since I missed last week, thanks to that dodgy takeaway. We’ll have tea when I get home.”

Emmeline placed a plaid throw over her dearest friend, then kissed the top of her head. Vera remained oblivious.

After applying a light smear of Avon Coral Fever to her lips, Emmeline paused in front of her dresser mirror to take a closer look. Her full lips were her best asset, and she had always been secretly proud of them. So many seventy-four-year-old women had no lips at all, or so it seemed. Not that Emmeline’s lips had been kissed constantly throughout her life, but that fact made no difference to her delight in them. When you are a big lady with a large rump and a full bosom with no waist to speak of, you choose one asset to cling to, for personal satisfaction.

But it had to be said that Emmeline was also proud of her hair, which had turned from an unfortunate mousy brown into a glorious icy-grey frost. She had scads of it, which she tried to tidy up with hair pins and a tortoiseshell clip, but it always looked like she’d been caught in a windstorm.

And it really was a pity that she had to put on rather thick, round glasses in order to see anything, since her remarkably unwrinkled face did look quite striking without them, but one can’t have everything in life, so Emmeline pretended she wasn’t wearing them and hoped others would do the same.

She took off her full-body apron and carefully placed it at the end of her single bed. She’d learned long ago not to throw it, as her apron pockets were always crammed with various items that would clatter to the floor if she wasn’t careful.

It was true that this fine lady had a uniform of sorts, wearing only thick, beige stockings, a tight, mid-calved tweed skirt (which made her backside resemble a rather large soup spoon), and a tucked-in cotton or polyester blouse. Silk, on formal occasions, but there weren’t many of those. And naturally, jumpers for when it was chilly in the house. But on days like today, when she was going somewhere, she would take out her Emmeline jacket and fasten herself in.

This was something else Emmeline could grin about. Who else had a jacket named after them? And such a classic and sophisticated one at that, with its extended lapels, blouson shoulders, tailored single-breasted lapels, and button cuffs in British herringbone tweed.

She felt ready to take on the day when the two Emmelines joined forces.

But today, she also had to put on her raincoat and accordion rain hat. Then she took her ancient leather carryall from the sideboard, the keys to her 1960 Vauxhall Victor (still in excellent shape after eight years of driving it sparingly), and the folder she needed for class. One quick peek to make sure Vera hadn’t moved, and she was off.

The town of Leigh-on-Sea was situated on the northern side of the Thames Estuary, and for centuries had been a fishing village and small port on the Essex coast. At low tide, the foreshore had a wide expanse of mud flats and creeks, and all the boats would lie listlessly on their sides until the tide came up again. When Emmeline had moved to Leigh several years before, she used to worry about getting stuck in those mud flats, so she never ventured down to the shore. Not at all like the beaches of her childhood.

But despite that obvious hazard, the little English town was a gem, with its centuries-old churches, Georgian architecture, and small shops dotted everywhere, with its pubs and glorious greenery. Englishmen and their gardens thrived here, but what fascinated Emmeline was the number of palm trees sprouting everywhere. How exotic and unexpected.

Her favourite listed building was the Leigh Library, her home away from home, which looked like it came straight out of a Dickens novel: red brick, large-paned and ornate dormer windows, latticework on the eaves, a turret on the side, and two huge chimneys reaching for the sky on the rooftop. Emmeline would often just lift her head and gaze at them, knowing they were perfect for Bert, the chimneysweep from Mary Poppins, to come popping out of.

She went alone to see the film, but told Vera all about it. “I so love that song ‘A Spoonful of Sugar.’” She sang it for weeks, and nearly drove Vera mad.

“Miss Darling! There you are! We missed you last week, and since it was our first class, rather bad timing on your part.”

Joyce Pruitt, the organizer of this particular memoir-writing class, fancied herself a writer of sorts, having had a few articles and poems published in the local paper. The head librarian always grimaced when Joyce berated people at the front door. Her loud voice could be heard throughout the stacks, but no amount of hinting about keeping it down ever seemed to get through to her.

Emmeline took off her accordion rain bonnet and gave it a shake in the foyer, deliberately sprinkling water droplets on Joyce’s pullover. She disliked the woman constantly lording it over people. Joyce was well known for being a bit of a bully within the library circle.

Her brother Teddy’s voice was in her head: “Stay away from insincere people, Em.”

“Oh dear. Sorry about that,” she said, completely insincerely.

Joyce wiped the wet away. “Never mind. You’re here now. You’re the last to arrive, as always. Chop, chop.”

Emmeline pursed her full lips in exasperation as Joyce hustled her into the small room. The space was used for a variety of activities, but Tuesday afternoons were devoted to the written word, and this four-week memoir class had attracted six ladies, who were now crowded around the circular Lucite table, sitting in a hodgepodge of uncomfortable chairs. Fortunately, the room was equipped with a small sink and a few cupboards, which held the necessities for making tea.

“Miss Darling,” Joyce fawned, “be so kind as to make the tea. The librarian tells us no one makes it quite like you. Are you sure you’ve never worked for royalty?”

“I didn’t quite make it to Buckingham Palace, Joyce. I learned to make a cup of tea from my mother.”

Joyce frowned. Miss Darling could be cantankerous, so she turned her attention to her other chicks gathered around the table.

Emmeline plugged in the kettle and waited for the water to boil. A harmless soul named Sybil sidled up to her.

“I’m quite nervous about reading our assignment out loud,” she confessed. “My memoirs aren’t terribly interesting, I’m afraid.”

“Nonsense!” Emmeline almost shouted. “Your life only seems dreary to you because you are familiar with it. The rest of us will be hearing it for the first time, and that’s terribly exciting.”

Sybil held her fists tightly in front of her. “Perhaps.”

“You need a pick-me-up. Here.” Emmeline rummaged around in her jacket pocket and took out a wrapped humbug. “Suck on this. An opera singer once told me they do the trick. It will give you courage until it’s your turn.”

Sybil looked vaguely unsure.

“Trust me. Mulling things over with your tongue is infinitely more satisfying than wringing your hands.”

The water reached its boiling point, and Emmeline swished the hot water around and around in the old workhorse of a teapot, emptied it quickly, and then poured in the rest of the boiling water, adding five teabags to the mixture. She reached into the drawer to find something to stir the tea with, then spied it out of the corner of her eye, hidden in the back, lost and forgotten: a very small, ornate spoon that might have belonged to a child’s tea set. It gave her pause. She should leave it where it was. Who knew how long it had resided in this drawer, and who was she to take it away?

Nope. Sorry. She grabbed it and furtively shoved it in the same pocket the humbug had just vacated. In her haste, she reached for a fork and stirred the tea with that.

“We’ll give it five minutes and the tea should be done,” she announced over her shoulder.

At last, they were ready, all of them with their tea in a variety of cups and mugs, the type that tend to gather together after sixty years of random gatherings. Joyce had naturally grabbed the favourite—as with most things in life, there was one cup that was clearly better than the rest. Emmeline purposely avoided it. To build character.

Joyce clasped her hands and held them in the air, as if in victory. “Here we are. Our assignment was to start our memoirs, which I know is a terribly daunting task. One doesn’t ordinarily like to draw attention to oneself, so it’s a difficult hurdle for some. But alas, writing is tremendously challenging, and that is something you need to learn in a hurry. If it was easy, every Tom, Dick, and Harry would be at it.”

“Like those dratted individuals, Thomas Hardy, Richard Hughes, and Henry James,” Emmeline said, smirking.

The ladies chuckled until they realized their leader wasn’t amused.

Joyce looked at her roster. “Emmeline and Sybil weren’t here last week. Can I assume something catastrophic happened to keep you away? You know it throws the other members off, to have to repeat lessons.”

Sybil turned a bright pink. “I had to take me mam to the surgery.”

“I do hope she’s feeling better,” Joyce said.

“The swelling’s gone down, ta.”

Joyce turned to Emmeline and waited.

“Do you really want the details of my gastric battle with a vindaloo takeaway, Joyce?”

“Perhaps not.” She turned away. “Sybil. Would you please read what you’ve written for the class?”

Emmeline could see Sybil hastily crunch the rest of the humbug and swallow it down before quickly glancing up at her for moral support. Emmeline smiled encouragingly.

“My name is Sybil Weatherbee, but I only became a Weatherbee after I married our Cyril when I was eighteen. I was a Platt before that. Me mam hated Cyril and kicked me out of the house, but after twenty years we made up and now I take her to surgeries for her various ailments. She’s got wicked wind, and gout, and eczema, and liver failure, and an enlarged heart. She calls herself the Grinch, because of her enlarged heart, and everyone has a great laugh over that. Cyril died last year and we never had any kids, so I’m always looking for something to do. Like take a writing class. The End.”

There was complete silence before Sybil lifted her face from the page in front of her. She gave Emmeline a desperate look. Emmeline reached out her hand and placed it on Sybil’s arm.

“You see, Sybil, you had nothing to worry about. Your life is an intriguing tale of bravery, true love, and sacrifice. A young girl, thrown out on her own, but undaunted, because she had the love of her life beside her. In spite of the challenges her family put in her way she made the courageous decision to forgive her mother and is now a loving caretaker, despite her own heartbreak at losing her beloved Cyril, gone too soon. Instead of giving up, she’s throwing herself into other interests and making a difference in the world. I say bravo to you!”

Everyone, except Joyce, gave Sybil an enthusiastic ovation. Sybil looked completely overwhelmed and turned an even brighter shade of pink.

Once things settled down, Joyce nodded at Emmeline. “I believe it is your turn.”

Emmeline took her folder and flipped it open on the table. Her document was held together by a large paperclip and a wide elastic, just in case.

“My good woman,” Joyce said, scowling, “you weren’t supposed to write a novel.”

“I’ve been at this project for a while. Long before I knew of this class. It is a memoir, of sorts.”

“You can read five pages, Miss Darling. That should suffice. Remember, we are a class of beginners. Not for people interested in being published.”

“I have no intention of being published,” Emmeline shot back. “My story is my own, and not for the public.”

“Very well. Let’s get on with it. I think we may need a timer at this rate.”

Emmeline ignored the remark, took a big swig of tea, and cleared her throat.

Apparently, a summer morning in 1894 was the perfect time for hanging out a line of wash. The kind of day when the sun shone so bright in the clear blue sky that white cotton sheets dazzled before your eyes, making you almost blind. The wind snapped pillow cases and clean towels back and forth like waving flags, and the smell of the grass and hay made you think that life was definitely worth living.

At least, that’s what I was thinking when my mother gave an almighty screech and reached down between her apron and long skirt to attempt to catch me before I fell from between her legs and into a basket full of freshly laundered linen.

She didn’t grab me in time, and I don’t think she ever forgave me for bloodying those beautiful white sheets. But the scent of sun-drenched fresh cotton in that meadow of wildflowers, mixed with the salty sea air and the aroma of fir trees, is still the most heavenly fragrance on earth. I feel it belongs only to me.

Which is nonsense, of course, but then that’s how I’ve always seen the world. It’s mine alone. And that attitude tried my mother’s patience on an almost daily basis. She had no idea what to do with me. My four older brothers were a piece of cake, according to her. They did as they were told in front of her, and what they got up to behind her back had nothing to do with her. If it was something untoward, father would deal with it in the back shed. But my brother Teddy told me that our father only took the strap down so Mother could see him taking it out back. He never used it on any of my brothers and swore them to secrecy, to which they readily agreed.

It’s a very odd feeling to know that your mother doesn’t like you very much. I mean, she loved me, I think, but she never thought of me as a friend, someone she could confide in. Or maybe she wasn’t used to jabbering away with another female after living with five men for so long.

But she did teach me to make a good pot of tea. And she let me help with the baking. And she is behind my love of the full-length apron. I don’t think I ever saw her without one, except to go to church or a funeral. I realized early on that you could carry vast amounts of random items in the pockets of an apron. It was the first thing she ever gave me, out of necessity, she said, and I loved it more than anything else. It was always a fight to make me take it off before going to school.

I remember my brother Teddy bought me a doll once and I tried to love it, but it wasn’t until my mother fashioned a small apron for it that I carried it everywhere.

Sybil put up her hand. “Sorry to interrupt, but your mother made your doll an apron. That tells me she liked you.”

Emmeline blinked, and then blinked again. “I never thought of it like that. I believe you’re right.”

A gal named Flora, who had a long, lean face that resembled a greyhound, shook her head in disbelief. “Imagine being born in a basket. They should’ve called you Moses.”

Una, who had a head full of curlers under her kerchief, spoke up. “Where was this? Sounds like heaven.”

“Nova Scotia.”

“Where?”

“Canada.”

“Oh, ducky, you’re a long way from home.”

Joyce tapped the table a few times. “Miss Darling will never get through her narrative if we continually ask her questions. We’ll save our opinions until the end, please.”

Everyone leaned forward to hear more.

We lived on a farm. It was my job to collect the eggs every morning, but the rooster didn’t like me, and it was a battlefield between the chicken coop and the house. The rooster was a four-star general, and I a lowly soldier trying to do my duty. He would chase me around the yard, my older brothers laughing at the spectacle. Mother would open the kitchen window and yell for me to flap my apron at him, but it never worked. Not until the day Teddy grabbed the rooster by the feet and marched him down to our neighbours and exchanged him for one of theirs. Mother wasn’t happy about it. Said that rooster was a good specimen, but the new one left me alone, so no more pecking at my legs after that.

Teddy always made my life better.

Once our barn cat had a litter of kittens and there was a runt that was pushed to the side. My brother Daniel picked it up and said he’d drown it. I screamed, and Teddy came running. He grabbed the kitten from him. “What do you think you’re doing, upsetting her like that?”

“It’s hardly alive. I’m doing it a favour. The sooner she knows what happens on a farm, the better.”

“Get lost, Danny.”

Teddy helped me find an old towel to wrap the kitten in, and then he went over to Bessie, our cow, took hold of her teat, and gathered a stream of warm milk into a tin plate. He removed a small spoon from a leather pouch attached to his belt, and while I cuddled the kitten, he held the teaspoon of milk to its tiny mouth. He kept doing it until the milk was gone. The kitten fell asleep in my arms.

“That’s all it needed, Em. Just a spoonful of kindness.”

That cat grew into a striking tabby. He’d follow Teddy everywhere, like a dog. I had helped feed him too, but couldn’t have made much of an impression.

But I was rather forgettable when Teddy was around. Most of the time, actually. I wasn’t well liked in school. The teacher, Mr. McIsaac, said I asked too many questions for a girl and that I didn’t need to know everything because I was only going to be a wife and mother, and then he took that back and said no one would marry a big girl like me. The whole class laughed.

When Teddy heard what happened, he waited until the end of the day. Once the kids scattered home and Mr. McIsaac was locking up, Teddy came out from behind the building and punched the teacher right in the eye. I don’t know what else he said, because Mr. McIsaac didn’t report him to the school authorities. And that teacher never said another word to me. He left our school soon afterwards, and I was glad to see him go.

Up until that point, I hadn’t realized I was a big girl. That’s when I started to worry that maybe my mother was disappointed in me, because she and her sisters were slender, almost scrawny, probably from working so hard every day, but I noticed my brothers were long and lean as well. They took after my father. Where did I come from with my curves?

When I was around twelve, I noticed my mother giving me smaller portions of food, especially dessert, and that made me feel sad, mostly about myself. But in the evenings, there would be a soft knock at my bedroom door, and I’d open it to find a bowl of dessert like bread pudding or apple crumble sitting on the floor covered with a cloth. I didn’t have to guess who left it for me.

My other brothers would tease me, but they always smiled when they did. Daniel was the oldest and tallest, and he felt like another father to me. I always jumped to attention if he asked me to do something, because he could be stern. I had the feeling that if he were Father, he’d use the strap.

Martin was constantly making jokes. He’d have my parents in stitches around the supper table. I think he worked at being funny, because he knew he wasn’t as good-looking as his younger brothers, John and Teddy.

Oh, how the girls loved John and Teddy, with their thick, blond hair, sea-blue eyes, and skin that would turn a golden brown after working in the fields all summer. Mother used to say she was going to have to flap her apron at the girls who would wander into the yard with one excuse or another just to see if the boys were about. Although she was always glad to get the jars of jam or honey they brought with them. Some even brought pots of soup and homemade bread. Mother would shake her head.

“Do their mothers know the food they’re taking from their own tables? If you acted like that, I’d tan your hide.”

Mother never tanned my hide, but she wasn’t averse to occasionally grabbing me by the upper arm and giving my backside a swat. It never hurt my bottom, but my feelings were bruised.

Or she would sometimes throw her hands up to her ears and shout, “Enough, Emmeline! Just stop talking for five minutes. I don’t know if birds are small dinosaurs, or if the king wears his crown to bed, or if Henry Stanley said “Dr. Livingston, I presume” in the wilds of Africa. The only thing I care about is pickling these beets before the sun goes down.”

I did have one friend when I was ten, a rather slow girl everyone ignored in school. Mildred never did any of the assignments, just sat in the back. That’s because she couldn’t read, and no one bothered to take the time to teach her. I’d walk over to her house sometimes, and we’d sit on her dirty porch with a book I’d bring from home, but trying to get her to understand the words was frustrating. Sometimes she’d say the right thing and her eyes would shine, but it never lasted long, and that dull look would return and she’d say she had to go in.

I brought her home once and sat her at our kitchen table to offer her milk and cookies before I attempted another lesson. This time it was a picture book, which I thought might be easier. I noticed she was having a terrible time with her nose. A steady greenish discharge was coming out of both nostrils.

“You must have a terrible cold, Mildred.” I handed her one of my mother’s newly ironed handkerchiefs to sop up the mess. “I have just the thing for that.” I rummaged in what my mother called her medicine cupboard and took out a bottle of cod liver oil. “Mother makes us take this all the time. She says it wards off colds.”

I just happened to have a dandy spoon in my apron (a lesson learned from Teddy), and poured out enough cod liver oil to fill the spoon and then some. I carefully carried it over to Mildred and made her open wide. She coughed a lot of it up, and that’s how my mother found us. The look on her face told me she wasn’t best pleased.

“What on earth are you girls doing?”

Mildred jumped up from the table and ran out the door, leaving the soggy handkerchief behind.

“Mildred has a cold. I was trying to make her feel better.”

“Oh, Emmeline! Look at this mess all over the floor and counter. And who said you could use my good handkerchief?” She picked it up off the table with a pair of iron tongs and threw it into the burning wood stove. “Now I’m going to have to scrub this kitchen—and you, for that matter. That family is full of lice and God knows what else. Don’t ever bring her here again!”

“But I’m trying to help her read. And it’s not her fault she has lice, or a runny nose.”

“Some people just can’t be helped. Now take off your clothes and get in the tub.”

I was so angry that night in bed. I always thought of my mother as a Christian woman. It was the first time I learned that saying and doing were two separate things.

I didn’t speak to my mother for a week. And after a while I think she felt ashamed of herself.

One night at supper, my father leaned back in his chair and rubbed his belly. “That was the best stew I ever ate, Hettie. Good for what ails ya, no doubt.”

I’d just finished drying the dishes when Mother came over with a dish covered with a tea towel. “Why don’t you bring this over to Mildred? It might help her cold.”

That was as close as she could come to saying she was sorry.

Emmeline suddenly felt drained, and wondered where she was. She rubbed her eyes and tried to gather herself.

“Oh, what happens next?” Sybil cried out. “I can’t wait to hear.”

Another lady, Harriet, nodded enthusiastically, which caused her dentures to wobble. “Please, Emmeline. Keep going.”

“I think I’ll stop now, if you don’t mind. I’m rather tired.”

“Quite right.” Joyce nodded. “One can’t let only one participant take up all our time. Who would like to go next?”

No one raised their hand.

“Oh, come now, ladies,” Joyce said. “Basically, all we learned from Miss Darling’s memoir is that she lived on a farm. I’m sure some of you can top that.”

A stern-looking middle-aged woman who preferred to be addressed as Mrs. Tucker made a face at Joyce. “It’s not what she wrote, it’s how she wrote it. That, to me, is writing. I was at that farm with her. She made me see that place and she made me feel what it was like to live there. I know darn well I could never write like that. And I don’t think the rest of us can either.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Tucker, for your kind words,” Emmeline said, “but what I think Joyce is trying to say is that we all have our own way of writing, and a class like this is not for comparing each other but to experience the joy of bringing back our own memories. I’m very much interested in hearing from everyone else.”

Joyce frowned. “I believe that’s what I just said. Mrs. Tucker, perhaps you can go next, since you spoke up. You were going to take another stab at it. Last week’s efforts were scanty to say the least.”

Mrs. Tucker realized her mistake in calling attention to herself but couldn’t get out of it now. She took out a single folded piece of paper from her coat pocket and put on the glasses that dangled from the chain around her neck.

“I was born by the dark green sea

Much too green for me.

The water is wavy and reminds me of gravy

Plus haddock and mushy green peas.

But now I live in a town

The part that’s really rundown

That’s because hubby is really a rubby,

Who does nothing but make me frown.

So I try to go out for a laugh,

To bring my silly smile back,

But here’s the heartbreakin’ thing,

I gotta go back home to him.”

Emmeline once more burst into applause and the group followed. Mrs. Tucker seemed pleased with herself.

Joyce unfortunately looked like she’d sucked on a sour cherry. “Haddock, Mrs. Tucker?”

“I work in a chip shop. I’ve got haddock on the brain.”

By the end of the session, with all six of them reading their efforts out loud, they were more than ready to go home. They started to push away from the table and take their mugs to the sink. It was obvious the class was finished, but still Joyce made one last effort to be heard, by raising her voice over the scraping chairs.

“We’ve made excellent progress, ladies. Next week, let’s have a bit more drama, if possible. It’s the true essence of good fiction.”

“Technically, a memoir is non-fiction,” Emmeline muttered, but she was done sparring with Joyce today.

It had finally stopped raining by the time Emmeline stepped outside with the others. They parted ways with a quick wave and a “See you next week.” She took great gulps of fresh sea air. That back room was terribly stuffy. Perhaps that’s why she felt weary. And sitting on a hard chair for a couple of hours was difficult at her age, even with all the padding on her bottom.

As she drove to the shops to pick up two lamb chops for tea, and Vera’s favourite minced salmon, she realized she was mentally fatigued, as if she’d played hours of bridge or completed a difficult crossword puzzle. How odd.

The showers started up again, just as Emmeline was locking up the car. She took her carryall, folder, and parcels and managed a slow sprint to the door of her terraced house. She reached up and put the key in the lock, pushing it open with her sore hip, which was a silly thing to do.

“Cripes, Kate!” Vera was annoyed. “Where’ve ya been? Another five minutes and there would’ve been a fine piddle on the floor.”

“Goodness! I didn’t realize the time.”

Vera brushed by her legs to escape into the fine pea-gravel that lined the walkway. She squatted in a hurry and let out a long sigh of relief.

Emmeline, still holding her parcels at the door, tsked. “Sorry, old girl. My fault entirely. I should’ve taken you out before I left, but you looked so cozy.”

“I’m not done yet. You might want to avert your eyes.”

“Please don’t go near Mr. Henderson’s garden gnome. You know how much he hates that.”

“Live dangerously. That’s what I say.”

“Vera!”

“Spoilsport.” Vera took her time smelling every possible spot for its potential. Emmeline didn’t blame her, being cooped up all afternoon, but after five minutes she was getting damp in the doorway, and as a result her rheumatism started to make itself known.

“Vera! Hurry along! I bought minced salmon.”

The dog looked up. “You should have mentioned that before.” She scurried into the shrubbery, did her business, and bolted back into the house.

It was while Emmeline made their tea that she remembered the small spoon in her pocket. She took it out and examined it carefully. It really was the prettiest little thing. How had it found its way into the library drawer? Well, it wouldn’t be lonely anymore. She held it under the tap and scoured it with washing powder and then dried it until it shone.

Later that evening, the two of them sat side by side on the settee. It always took Vera three tries to get up, since her legs were only four inches long, but she refused to let Emmeline help. It was a matter of pride.

They watched the gas fire brighten up one side of the room while the other was only dimly lit by the small Tiffany lamp on Emmeline’s desk, where she did most of her reading and writing during the day. Evenings were spent watching Coronation Street or Dad’s Army on the telly, or listening to the BBC.

But not tonight. Emmeline stared into the fire and absentmindedly rubbed Vera’s soft, small ears, which she and the dog loved.

“So how was your writing class today?”

“I’m not sure.”

“How so?”

“Someone said my mother liked me because she made an apron for my doll.”

“You don’t think your mother liked you? You’ve never mentioned that before.”

“It’s not something I like to dwell on. I don’t think she did. But I’d forgotten she’d made my doll an apron. You would do that for someone you liked, wouldn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t. I can’t sew.”

“I’ve never written about my life before. When you read it out loud to people, it’s like living it all over again, but it’s not the same. Which is the truth—what happened, or my memory of what happened?”

They both fell asleep on the couch while they thought about it.

Advance praise for
The Spoon Stealer

Praise for
Lesley Crewe

Are You Kidding Me?!

Longlisted for the 2019 Leacock Memorial Medal for Humour

Beholden

Shortlisted for the 2019 Dartmouth Book Award

Mary, Mary

Longlisted for the 2017 Leacock Memorial Medal for Humour

Amazing Grace

Hit & Mrs

Relative Happiness

Now an award-winning feature film

Chapter One

Advance praise for The Spoon Stealer

Praise for Lesley Crewe

Are You Kidding Me?!

Longlisted for the 2019 Leacock Memorial Medal for Humour

Beholden

Shortlisted for the 2019 Dartmouth Book Award

Mary, Mary

Longlisted for the 2017 Leacock Memorial Medal for Humour

Amazing Grace

Hit & Mrs

Relative Happiness

Now an award-winning feature film

Chapter One

Advance praise for
The Spoon Stealer

Praise for
Lesley Crewe