My sister has two crates of her stuff ready to go. Everything else Jane owns will stay in my 
attic. She said she doesn’t need much where she’s going. There won’t be room in the caravan. 
It’s very important that we call it that. Some of her friends have been referring to it as a 
mobile home.  

“Once I’m in, I won’t be moving. A caravan carries an implication of permanency,” she said. 

I tell Sean about the crates, about the rest of Jane’s stuff and where it will go. He’s eating his 
breakfast. He hasn’t left mine out. I take a bowl and spoon, pour milk over my cereal. 

“Why can’t her stuff stay with Corine?” he asks. 

“You know why.” 

“I do,” He says. “She’s mental.” 

Sean is direct. I knew this before we got married, he hasn’t changed. His mother brought him 
up to always tell the truth even if it hurts people's feelings. My family are the opposite. We 
never admit the truth. Things like my sister and the way she is, the way she’s got. Sean’s first 
marriage ended because she couldn’t hack the truth, he said. She moved to England. He sees 
his son four times a year.  

He massages my shoulders. 

“I can pick up her boxes, bring them to the halting site. If that helps.” 

“I want to go though.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I want to see it.” 

I finish my cereal while he showers for work. I’m off today.  

I met Sean a year ago, about the time Jane moved out of Mum’s house, when she first started 
sleeping in her car. She’d let the front driver's seat back, her duvet and pillows tucked in 
nicely. Said she felt safer there. Those two crates of stuff in the boot. I bought her a new 
duvet set. A navy one with white stars printed on it, a matching pillow.  

Jane thinks Sean is safe. She didn’t like my last boyfriend. He ended it, saying he couldn’t 
cope with her hold over me. I told him it was just a sibling relationship. Jane says she’ll never 
marry, says no one could understand her needs, her thinking.  

She decided very quickly on this next home. We were driving home with a Christmas tree for 
Mum. Jane wanted to vet it before it came into the house even though she was sleeping in the 
car at this stage and only used the house for toileting and showering. Mum had started 
bringing meals out to her in the car. It’s easier, she said. Otherwise she won’t eat and I can’t 
cope with that, as if not eating was the thing that would tip her over the edge.  

“It feels bad,” Jane says when she sees the tree. “Like it was pulled out of the earth with a 
negative thrust.” She asks the man who’s selling the trees where it came from and the type of 
land it grew on. 

“I don’t grow these. I just sell them,” he says. 

“They could come from anywhere then,” Jane says. 

I decide to take the tree. The man pushes it into my boot, the peak of it hanging out. 

“It’ll be fine, drive slowly,” he says. 

“The stump looks bad,” Jane remarks. He shakes his head, walks away. 

We drive slowly with the radio turned off, it makes her think she has cancer. We wouldn’t 
have spotted the halting site if we weren’t driving so slowly. We could have avoided it.  

“Slow down. Stop,” She tries to open the door so I pull over. 

*
I liked living at home with Mum and Jane. We never fought like other sisters do. I actually 
don’t remember a single fight. We shared a bedroom with only sixteen months between us. I 
moved out when I started college, the commute was too long. Jane never went. She finished 
her Leaving Cert and got a job as a receptionist in a doctor’s surgery within days and that was 
it. I traveled home every weekend and we carried on sharing a bedroom. Things didn’t 
change for me. It’s hard to trace when it all started. I talk to Sean about it every night. He 
thinks it was when I met him. That she struggled to adjust to me finding independence and 
love. I’m not sure.  

What I do know is that she went away on her first sun holiday shortly after I moved in with 
Sean. He lived in the city, it was easier but that wasn’t the reason why I did it. I knew when I 
met him. I told her this. I brought her out into the garden. We sat on patio chairs and watched 
our cat, Fluff, chase birds.  

“I’m thinking of moving in with Sean,” I had practiced this with him. Be direct, he said, just 
say it. 

“Right,” she said. 

“Yes,” I replied. 

“It’s cold. The rain is all we ever get in this country. I need a sun holiday. It’d be nice for us.” 
she said. 

I got up and pointed at Fluff who had caught a small robin. It was still alive and Fluff had it 
captured under her paws.  

“I’ll get Fluff some food.”  

I didn’t think she’d go, that she’d book anything but when I came home the weekend after to 
pack my stuff, she was gone. 

“She flew out last night,” Mum said. “Lanzarote. I hope the weather is good for her.” 

I went to the patio doors, the rain was heavy, she was right. It rains an awful lot here.  

*
It’s a small halting site, eight caravans at most. She stands at the entrance, smelling the air 
deeply. She looks alert. The lights are on in all of the caravans.  

I wind my window down to watch her. She takes notions like this frequently. Liked to assess 
if it was a good place to live, if it would infect her. It is a clear night and I see no harm so I 
join her, stand so close to her I could have linked arms. A dog barks, a door opens. 

“Come on,” I say, touching her arm. “We shouldn’t be here.” 

“I don’t need to stay any longer. This feels good,” She says, getting back into the car and I 
wind up my window. 

“Can I turn the heat on?” 

“You’ve never asked me before,” she replies. “You’ve never cared to ask me about my body 
temperature.” 

I leave the heat off and the radio. Drive her back to Mum’s house. Mum stands at the door in 
her slippers. 

“Good girl,” she said. “The tree is beautiful.” 

“We stopped at the traveller site on the Headford Road,” I say. 

“The decorations are ready to go up, ”Mum replies.  

Jane sits at the kitchen table looking through an atlas.  

“A river runs right behind it,” she says. “That’s a good sign too.” 

“I’m going to help Mum with the decorations,” I reply. 

“I’ll do my research in the car,” Jane announces. “It’s not right here now with that tree. You’ll 
find it’s no good, it’ll die quickly.” 

She goes past Mum. 

“Goodnight,” kissing her on the cheek. 

“I'll bring you out your dinner in a few minutes.” Mum calls after her. 

I want to ask Mum when this all exactly started. The atlas gazing. The dinners in the car. The 
allergic reactions to a fir tree. 

“I’m going home after this,” I say instead. “Sean’s made a roast.” 

*
I don’t see either of them for a while. I let Mum’s number ring out until Sean picks it up for 
me. 

“Hello, Mam,” he says, winking at me. “Yes, your daughter is alive.” 

I shake my head as he holds the phone to me. 

“She’s in the bathroom,” he says so I go to the bathroom, lock myself in. 

When I come back, he is consulting a cookbook, making notes, checking the cupboards, 
pulling tins out on the floor. 

“What are you doing?” I ask. 

“Your Mam is worried about Jane.” 

“Go on?” 

“She asked for us to make dinner before Jane moves out to the site.” 

“Headford Road is only a few miles away. We’ll see Jane again.” 

“Jane wants to move into a halting site, wake up!”and he takes the cook book with him. 

“Tomorrow night, dinner’s here.” 

*
Séan makes meatballs, homemade tomato sauce and linguine covered with olive oil, plenty of 
salt.  

“Please,” he says. “Dig in.” 

“Wow, this is delicious, Sean,” Jane says. “You’re a keeper.” 

She smiles at me, nudges me but I can’t be happy. 

“He’s a keeper,” Mum repeats. 

“Time will tell, “Sean replies. “Let’s make a toast?” 

Jane and Mum stand up. I sit. 

“To Jane, her new life, her new home,” says Sean. “A brand new caravan in the halting site 
on the Headford Road.” 

They clink glasses, swig their wine at this statement. 

I stand up, my hands shaking. “This is not a happy occasion for us.” 

Everyone stops drinking. Jane puts her glass down. 

“I’m going to be truthful,” I say. Sean looks at me, egging me on. “This is a mess.” 

I take a gulp of my wine. 

“Emily,” Mum says. “Please don’t wreck the night.” 

“I’m not the one wrecking it. Jane sleeps in a car. Thinks the radio gives her cancer. Told me 
that the Christmas tree had a bad stump.” 

Jane looks at me in a way I’ve never seen her looking. She’s ready for the truth. I’m ready to 
give it. 

“Mum, you spoiled us. All I needed was to hear the word no.” 

Mum lets out a deep breath like a quiet scream, like the air coming out of a blow up bed 
when you jump suddenly on it. 

Jane looks at me, Sean too though he’s not smiling. 

“And you, Sean. You can be hard work. You cook, you clean but you control. I’m not sure 
about you sometimes.” 

Everyone puts their glasses down. Jane lines her cutlery up on her plate. 

“Anyone want the last meatball?” Mum asks.  

“You have it,” Sean says. 

I go to the bathroom, lock the door, run the water, let it go cold over my wrists. 

A light knocking on the door. 

“Emily?” 

“What?” 

“They’ve gone home. They’ve had enough.” 

I unlock the door, go to him. He holds me. 

“I did it. Are you not proud of me?” 

“There’s a way of being direct but if it’s not in you, it’s not in you.” 

*
I take Jane to the halting site. It rains all that week but today, the sun comes out and the 
washing lines in the halting site dance with fresh laundry. Some children are playing with a 
dog who barks excitedly as they chase him, ignoring the incoming lodgers. 

“Let me carry these in for you,” I say. I’m afraid someone will say something to us. 

I let her go ahead, let her take her first step into her caravan.  

“Where will I leave these?” I ask. 

“Anywhere,” She looks around her. “It’s smaller than I thought.” 

“It’s clean,” I say. The caravan is narrow. We stand in the kitchen area with its sink and a 
fridge tucked underneath. A small double ring burner.  

“It’ll be fine for day visitors but I’ll never be able to have people sleep over,” and she goes to 
a door, opens it. A bed is made up with the duvet I gave her. The navy and the white stars 
with matching pillows. 

“I’ve seen a yellow cushion in a crescent moon shape that would look great with the set,” I 
say. 

“No, thanks,” she replies. “I’ll pick up my own homeware now. I know what will feel good 
here because at the minute it doesn’t have the same feeling it had a few weeks ago.” 

I drive away, my car empty. When I get home, I’ll hoover it. The boot is full of pine needles. 
They’ll need to come out.