The Widow's Tale by Mick Jackson Page B

balancing-food-on-the-back-of-a-fork business, then lifting it up for a couple of seconds to see just how much falls off before delivering whatever’s left into your mouth.
    Some people might consider it simply slovenly behaviour, whereas I’m sticking with the Japanese thing. Of course, I wouldn’t do it in public. But if no one else is around where’s the harm? Who knows, I might start licking my plate clean. Or dispensing with cutlery altogether and just using my fingers. Or wiping my mouth on the cuff of my sleeve.
    Actually, if I’m looking for somewhere to live, perhaps I should consider Japan? All that fish and rice is meant to be so very healthy. Someone famous once said that if you feel like a stranger in your own country, you might as well live abroad where feeling like a stranger doesn’t feel so bad. Or something along those lines. I’ve never been to Japan (another good reason for going) but it does seem about as different from Britain as you can imagine. Except for the imperial past. And the island mentality. And the obsession with tradition.
    Maybe that’s not such a good idea after all.

Ginny’s texts and messages have 
    G inny’s texts and messages have been steadily increasing in frequency ever since I got here. If I walk far enough out on the saltmarshes with my phone turned on it will suddenly have a little fit of bleeps and squeaks, as a backlog of communication finally finds its way through to me. So far I’ve done a stalwart job of ignoring them, but they’ve been getting more and more barbed and the text that reached me this afternoon simply said, ‘ITD JUST BE NICE TO KNOW THAT YOURE NOT DEAD.’
    That woman sure knows how to prick my conscience. So earlier this evening, having braced myself with a large glass of Semillon, I pulled on my coat and hiked out to the phone box, down by the quay.
    It’s been a long time since I visited a proper old-fashioned phone box. The door seemed to require an incredible effort in order to open it. Perhaps that’s why we stopped using them? When she answered the phone and heard my voice she launched into a tirade of high sarcasm and bad language, which I allowed to just sort of wash over me until she managed to calm down a bit.
    There was a short pause, whilst she got her breath back.
    â€˜Where the bloody hell are you, anyway?’ she said.
    I had a quick think before replying.
    â€˜East Anglia,’ I said.
    Another short pause down the line. Perhaps she was biting her tongue – telling herself not to be too hard on me.
    â€˜You couldn’t be a bit more … specific ?’
    â€˜Norfolk,’ I said.
    â€˜OK …’ she said, as if she was talking to a child now. Or a very stupid adult. ‘And what are you doing up there?’
    â€˜I’m on the run,’ I said. I was being more honest than she might have appreciated.
    â€˜Who from?’ said Ginny.
    â€˜That’s what I’m trying to work out,’ I said.
    I quite like the idea of me being some sort of fugitive. Someone who’s considered potentially dangerous to the public. Do not approach this woman. She’s full of booze and ten different types of bitterness. And has a vile tongue on her. Call the authorities and we’ll pop her with a tranquilliser dart – like we do the rhinos when they get out .
    Ginny and I talked, rather hesitantly. And at some point I asked, perhaps a little self-indulgently, what she’d been saying when people asked after me.
    â€˜Just that you’re having a bit of a break …’ she said.
    For a moment there I thought she was going to say something else.
    â€˜Say the word,’ said Ginny, ‘and I’ll come and get you.’
    Again, there was something very appealing in the idea of me hidden under a blanket in the back seat of her car and Ginny sneaking me across the border.
    A long pause whilst I turned it over in my mind.
    â€˜Are