[T]he parent-child relationship was one way, you gave them all your love and they were under no obligation to pay a penny back. Of course, if they di… - Kate Atkinson

Winter dark, five o'clock in the morning by the little gold carriage clock on the bedroom mantelpiece. The clock, an English one ('Better than a French one', her mother had instructed), had been one of her parents' wedding presents. When the creditors came to call after the society portraitist's death his widow hid the clock beneath her skirts, bemoaning the passing of the crinoline. Lottie appeared to chime on the quarter, disconcerting the creditors. Luckily they were not in the room when she struck the hour.

She had been here before. She had never been here before. There was always something just out of sight, just around a corner, something she could never chase down — something that was chasing her down.

"Why was it that the females of the species were always the ones left to tidy up, she wondered? I expect Jesus came out of the tomb...and said to his mother, "Can you tidy it up a bit back there?