Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts by Mary Gibson

weeping old man. She had never seen him like it, not even when her mother died.
    ‘If anyone’s to blame it’s me,’ he went on. ‘Oh, God, Nellie, my poor little boy. The last thing I did to him was beat him, till he begged me to stop.’
    They stayed locked in each other’s arms for a long time, united, for once, in a common bond of guilt and grief.

8
    And Roses
    Nellie woke with a start, then realized she was in her own bed, though how she got there she couldn’t for the moment recall. The bright morning sun was already piercing the thin curtains and then she remembered. Bobby! How could she have left him? She instinctively turned over to shake Alice, but found she was alone in the bed. A cold panic rose like a paralysis and she was held fast by the fear of what she would find if she left the bed. If she stayed where she was, she needn’t find out. If she stayed still, here and now Bobby could still be alive. Now a memory surfaced of waking in the early morning light in the arms of her father as he carried her to her own bed. She must have fallen asleep at Bobby’s bedside.
    ‘He’s still the same, Nell,’ her father had whispered. ‘You sleep, I’ll watch him.’
    Too tired then to protest, she had sunk into a deep sleep. How many times she’d fended off wakefulness she couldn’t be sure, but each time she felt herself rising out of sleep a sickening fear that her beloved brother had gone overwhelmed her, and she clutched at unconsciousness once more.
    But Nellie knew she couldn’t run away from the dreadful news forever. Forcing herself to get up, she walked barefoot across the room. Pulling aside the curtain, she saw him. His pale face looked so peaceful, she even thought there was the trace of a smile. Why was no one here with him? Why had they left him to grow cold all on his own? She felt a surge of anger at the old grey blanket covering him to the neck. He had always hated its scratchiness. He should have been wrapped in something soft. She reached to turn down the blanket and was startled by a movement. Had the blanket risen with a breath or was it her imagination giving her what she so desperately wanted? Placing her hand lightly on Bobby’s chest, she felt it again, an almost imperceptible rise and fall. He was breathing! But so shallow, light as a baby’s breaths and with so many agonizing seconds between them. She sat quietly on the bed, counting each breath till she assured herself the next one would come. She remembered her mother’s favourite saying: ‘Just remember, Nellie, when you open your eyes in the morning and you’re still breathing, you know you’ve already had a bloody good day!’ Bobby’s eyes might not be open, but he was still breathing.
    ‘Oh, Bobby,’ she whispered, leaning closely over him, ‘Mum says you’re having a bloody good day.’ She let the tears fall as she stroked his smooth childish cheek.
    Just then she heard the voices of Alice and her father downstairs, speaking in low tones. What were they keeping from her? She flung her coat round her shoulders and hurried down. Freddie was sitting silently by the fire.
    ‘What’s going on?’ she asked him, but he shook his head.
    She ran out of the room to be met by a white-faced Alice, alone in the passage.
    ‘Where’s Dad gone?’ Nellie asked.
    ‘He wouldn’t say, Nell, just said the waiting was driving him mad and he had to get out of the house.’
    Nellie understood. She felt just as helpless, yet she wished her father had been brave enough to stay at home with them. His absence meant that it would be up to her to keep Alice and Freddie’s spirits up, and she didn’t know if she had the strength. She took her sister’s hand as Alice began to weep, and drew her back into the kitchen. ‘Come on, love, we’ve got to be grateful our Bobby’s still with us. I’m sure he’s through the worst of it,’ she lied. ‘Tell you what, let’s put the kettle on and I’ll see about some breakfast. God