He was easy enough to ignore on the train, sitting near enough to keep an eye on me, but not encroaching. If I’d had a good book, I daresay I could have blocked thought of him entirely. Unfortunately, all I had was the ‘improving stories’ Aunt Diddy had pressed into my hand that morning, and they were a long way from ‘good’ in any worthwhile sense.
I gave up on it entirely after Reading, leaving it on the table in front of me as I watched the world pass me by out of the window.
Reading to Cardiff is a long time for daydreaming and ostensibly ignoring someone your thoughts had a nasty habit of returning to. We got there eventually and he was at my heels as we left the station (the improving book had been sadly forgotten in the excitement and was hopefully now on its way back to London).
Uncle Rufus was just outside, waving enthusiastically when he saw me and I gladly went into his hug. Uncle Rufus is built like a red-headed rugby ball, with the demeanour of an over-hyped red setter. He’s the only one of my ridiculous collection of aunts and uncles I actually like spending time with.
After squeezing most of the air from my lungs, he stepped back and reached for my suitcase. My unwanted protector got there first, grabbing it with one hand, and offering his other to Uncle Rufus at the same time. “Mr Sewell, a pleasure to finally meet you.”
The DNA of Stories 