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101 pages, Hardcover
First published April 1, 2021
This lot need to let go now. But they can’t. Or won’t. Or don’t know how to. They’ve been holding on for far too long.
"Mummy doesn't eat dinner any more. She's had no appetite since she died."
It'd be easy to push someone over that cliff. It's so crumbly. You could make it look like an accident. I can think of at least three different times Agatha Christie killed somebody by shoving them off a cliff. If my iPad wasn't gone I'd google to see if there were more. I'm raging about losing my iPad. Now I have to run my investigation the old-fashioned way. Snooping around. Observing suspects. Taking notes on my jotter. Maybe it's better like this. Poirot never looked anything up on Wikipedia or checked suspects' alibis on Facebook. If Poirot was here, he'd say, forget the iPad, Alma. Use your leetle grey cells. I'm doing my best. I'm watching everyone, even Mum. It's always the person you least suspect.
Lois answers all her questions. She talks to her weans like they're adults. When she split up with her husband, Alma was fit to tell me the ins and outs of the whole divorce. She was only ten. You have to protect a child that age. They're not old enough to know everything. Still, I have to say I envy them - calearied as they are - at least they talk to each other, really properly talk. We're all adults in this caravan but we'll spend the whole weekend talking about nothing. The weather. The baby. Whether or not to put the kettle on. Avoiding the elephant in the room because nobody wants to cause a scene.