Charlotte Collins

I’ve known Death a long time, but now Death knows me.

The gravel crunched beneath the wheels as our minibus came to a halt in front of the house at the end of the Rue Le Goff.

I’d met a girl from the village, Ludivine, a few days earlier, and was telling my mother about her.

Three and a half years later, in December 1983: the last Christmas with my parents.

(“Jules, I really can’t watch this anymore, if you fall down there you’re going to break your neck!”)

And then came the eighth of January, a Sunday.

The boarding school where my brother and sister and I ended up after the death of our parents was not one of those elite institutions with tennis courts, hockey fields and pottery workshops, which was

Like me, she was eleven.

Almost three years later, by the end of 1986, Alva and I were the best of friends.

Liz dropped out of school and vanished from my life for years.